#sicsemper

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 — confident to the point of arrogance, as if the crumbling stones of Kremnos should part for him alone. It wasn’t just for show. Walking ahead of Mydei meant being seen, meant being watched — and Phainon had long accepted that he played to an audience, even if it was only one. His pause beside him wasn’t hesitation but punctuation, the echo of Mydei’s earlier words still lingering. Cheeky to think you’d be invited to the party, Deliverer. He hadn’t responded, not aloud — but the amusement that tugged faintly at his lips betrayed him. Invitation or not, he followed. And grumbling or not, he knew that if he didn’t, Mydei would notice.

They were a habit to each other now — a rhythm forged over time, wordlessly recognised in the way one fell in step with the other, even in silence. Phainon mirrored his stance with ease, arms folding as his gaze swept the fractured ruins ahead. No trace of concern darkened his features; only that usual air of careful calculation. This was a hurdle, not a defeat. And perhaps — just perhaps — one they’d cross side by side instead of circling each other in challenge. “Wings? No,” he said at last, voice smooth with that amused tilt of his head, “but if I had your sense of grandeur, I might be able to convince the wind to carry me.” He looked over the broken terrain with sharp eyes, reading the ruin like a script. This place was testing them.

It was then he spotted it — the remnants of a platform embedded in the cliffside, half swallowed by time and ivy. Stepping forward, Phainon crouched to clear the debris from what looked like a pressure seal, still intact beneath the decay. A ceremonial lift, perhaps. Something ancient — and intact enough to be useful. “Well, what do you know,” he murmured, brushing dust from his gloves as he straightened. “Looks like the ancients weren’t completely without taste. A platform fit for kings.” His eyes flicked to Mydei, the smirk already forming. “Or for those brave enough to pretend.” He gestured toward the other end of the cliff, where a mirrored mechanism waited — one that, with luck and balance, might hold under both their weight.

And yet, it was not this retreat that struck Zhongli most - it was the weight that remained. He observed the line of the other’s back, the taut set of his shoulders, the sinew drawn tight as if locked in unseen chains. Tension clung to him like armour worn past its purpose - no longer a protection, but a residue of pain. Even now, awakened and alert, the unrest had not departed. It lingered beneath the surface like a storm yet to break. Zhongli said nothing at first. Words, after all, were like stone - they must be placed with care, lest the foundation crack further.

The storm had not relented. Beyond the tall windows, rain etched silver trails down the glass, each drop tapping in soft insistence, a lullaby of unrest. Yet within the room, there was a silence far deeper than the storm’s fury - a stillness that pressed in around them, thick and unyielding. He moved - every gesture seemed carved from intent, as if to step too swiftly might shatter the fragile equilibrium that hung between them and there was tension, not just in the set of his body but between them. It lingered like smoke from a long-doused fire, stubborn in its refusal to dissipate. Perhaps it would never fade. Some distances are not bridged by time nor by words, but remain - etched like fault lines beneath a calm earth, waiting.

"Childe?" There was a hesitance in his voice, rare and telling. Not of uncertainty, but of restraint. Zhongli, who so often wielded words with precision, chose now to pare them back, to offer instead a quiet invitation. A probe, yes - but one without pressure. It was a gesture of patience, of care. An attempt to reach beneath the surface without disturbing what fragile defences remained. Moments drifted between them - measured, deliberate - allowing space for the question to settle. Though it was only a name, gently spoken, the true query did not require articulation. It lingered in the air, unshaped but understood.

𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 - how he remembered him. Childe had never been subtle with his feelings, never one to bottle things up the way he himself had learned to. Truth be told, he was content in this pit of solitude. It was what he knew, what he expected. Loneliness had been stitched into him since the beginning, and it was easier to wear than vulnerability.

He never expected Childe to find him. Never expected him to look. Not after everything. Not now, when he had shed the name Scaramouche like a skin and taken on a new identity. The Wanderer stood with arms folded, the soft fabric of his robes stirring in the breeze, and for a moment - just a breath - he allowed himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, this meeting could be a mercy.

It wasn’t.

Torn, angry when Childe didn’t remember, and somehow hurting even more when he did. There was no good outcome, no clean escape. Their past was a knot that refused to loosen, and maybe it was kindness to let Childe forget. But he’d be lying if he said the memories - the ones he kept alone, selfishly - didn’t still ache. Every mission. Every fight. Every slow unravelling of his defences. Childe had dismantled him in ways no blade ever could.

And that night - the one where he let himself rest against Childe’s shoulder, where he allowed himself even for a fleeting moment to be known, to be held - haunted him. It was fragile, terrifying, and unbearably real. He had no one to blame for it now. Not Ei. Not the circumstances. Only himself.

Was he truly his mother's son then? Had he done to Childe what she had done to him - left without warning, without explanation, and believed it wasn’t abandonment? The irony wasn’t lost on him. The hurt in Childe’s voice, in his eyes — that same fire admired now burned with betrayal. In that moment, he saw himself reflected back: the rage, the questions, the desperation for answers that might never soothe anything.

Violet eyes met his, steady and unreadable, but there was something underneath. A soft fracture in the armour. He couldn’t say it meant nothing. Because it hadn’t. Would it be kinder to lie? To give him closure and cut the thread clean?

Yes.

But the truth wouldn’t let him.

And maybe it was selfish. Maybe he was selfish, wanting closeness again, even now, even after everything. Childe was the only one he allowed in. And look what that brought them. Still, this time it wasn’t just his heart that was breaking.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice low but unwavering. A confession, heavy and honest. “I won’t lie to you.” He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t have to. Arms still folded across his chest, his chin tilted just slightly down as if bracing himself for a blow he wouldn’t dodge. But his gaze didn’t waver. He held it - steady, and resolute - as if it was the only tether he had left. The wind tugged softly at the edges of his coat, but he stood rooted in place, a figure shaped by defiance and grief in equal measure.

And then, the wind was stilled. The silence had deepened, unnaturally so. The world lost its edges. The dock beneath him blurred, the sky overhead dimmed to a dull wash. Even Childe’s figure distorted, colours bleeding at the edges like ink on water. The sound of his voice fell apart - syllables out of order, splintering mid-sentence. The air shifted, dense and weightless all at once. Something in his chest clenched. He reached out - not physically, but to something deeper. A tether, frayed.

And just like that, the world collapsed inward.

He gasped awake.

Cool grass beneath his fingers. The scent of damp earth, overhead, a cloud-choked sky, dull grey, the kind that came before a storm. He sat up slowly, his breath shallow. No familiar shoreline. No dock. No Childe. He didn’t curse. Didn’t scream. Just sat there, silent, his breath rising in quiet puffs. One hand lingered on his chest like he expected something to still be there. A mark. Warmth. A lie. But there was nothing. Only the stillness, and the way his pulse echos in his throat.

He knew it wasn’t really about him. It never was. That dream wasn’t Childe’s punishment - it was his own. A reflection of what he had become. He blamed Ei for leaving him. But what was he doing now, if not the same thing? Vanishing. Severing. Pretending he didn’t care because it was easier than admitting he still did. A bitter laugh, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes, escaped him.

𝐀𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧 𝐝𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐅𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐬𝐤𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞, its final golden rays stretched through the tall windows of the Chief Justice’s office, casting elongated shadows across marble floors and velvet furnishings. The stars began their quiet ascent, dotting the sky like scattered diamonds, visible through the crystalline glass that framed the grandeur of the city below. Dusk had painted the room in soft hues - rose-pink melting into molten amber - and in that fleeting light, it was easy to see why Fontaine was revered for its beauty.

And yet, all of it paled in comparison to one man: Neuvillette.

Slipping away from the Fortress for the night, Wriothesley found himself lingering in the doorway of the Palais Mermonia’s grand office. His presence, usually announced with casual strides and a roguish smirk, felt different tonight. He didn’t saunter in with feigned indifference or playful jest. Instead, he lingered - arms folded across his chest, pale grey eyes drinking in the sight of the man at the desk, bathed in the amber glow of twilight and lamp-light alike.

He watched, unashamed, his expression softened with quiet fondness. How had he come to be this lucky? It was a thought he pondered more often than he admittedly wanted - especially when he remembered all that Neuvillette had done for him.

Eventually, with a subtle breath and the smallest tilt of his head, he stepped from the shadows.

Wordless, he entered the room, shrugging off his coat and letting it fall on the back of a chair. His gaze drifted to the gramophone -- old, elegant, its brass horn catching the last blush of twilight. He approached it, curiosity piqued, and gently moved the needle to rest on the record. A soft crackle followed, and then music - low, warm, timeless - filled the air like a whispered memory.

If Neuvillette had questioned his sudden actions, Wriothesley didn’t respond. His attention was already shifting, closing the short distance between the gramophone and the desk. One hand reached out -- calloused and steady - to rest atop Neuvillette’s own, halting the rhythmic tapping of typewriter keys.

"Evening," he said at last, his voice quieter than usual - more earnest. His eyes met Neuvillette’s, lingering as he gently prised his hand away from work and clasped it within his own.

There was a look exchanged: trust me.

And then he pulled. Not urgently, not forcefully, but with intention. A smirk tugged at his lips, relief settling in his chest the moment he felt that familiar warmth near. Neuvillette’s scent of clean parchment and a hint of rain washed over him, soothing the fray of the day.

"Might I have this dance, Monsieur Neuvillette?" he murmured, letting the title roll deeper on his tongue, his lips ghosting near the man’s before he stepped back - just enough to guide him towards the centre of the room.

The music swelled, and the stars above bore witness as the two figures moved in quiet synchrony beneath the vaulted ceiling. Time seemed suspended, until the grand clock struck twelve. Its chimes echo through the chamber and momentarily rise above the melody.

Drawing Neuvillette close, one hand resting at the small of his back, Wriothesley leaned in with a subtle smile - tender and teasing all at once.

𝐀𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐦 𝐊𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐧𝐨𝐬, the colors drained from the world - sun-bleached stone, rust-streaked metal, and wilted banners stirring faintly in the dry wind. The air hung heavy with the scent of dust and decay, every step stirring the silence of a city long abandoned but not quite forgotten.

The city lay in ruins, its once-proud structures swallowed by time and tangled in the slow, relentless crawl of moss and vine. It was the only place Phainon truly believed Mydei could be free. Markings still clung to the stone, ancient carvings that told stories long fused into legends - tales of how this land came to perish. These carvings acted as a silent testament to the civilization that once thrived here, offering glimpses into their culture, beliefs, and struggles. They served as a bridge between the past and present, allowing those who stumbled upon them to piece together the history of the fallen empire. For Phainon, these stories were not just remnants of the past but keys to understanding the path forward and the potential for Mydei's liberation.

It wasn’t something Phainon often spoke of. Not to Caelus, and not even to Mydei himself. In the silence that settled over Kremnos, he caught it in Mydei’s eyes: that flicker of recognition, a quiet ache buried beneath his fire-hardened resolve. These ruins weren’t just remnants to him - they were fragments of something unfinished. Not merely as a record of loss, but a thread of possibility. A future reclaimed from the ash.

In those rare, quiet interludes between battles, Phainon would linger beside him fingers brush over ancient script, reading meaning - and asking for the occasional translation - into the weathered stone. No grand declarations, no heavy-handed comfort. Just presence. A shared moment beneath faded banners and broken archways, where their silence carried more than words could. And in that stillness, Phainon let Mydei know that his longing hadn't been forgotten. He wasn’t alone in carrying it.

Their journey was a trial — a gauntlet of obstacles both physical and personal, each trying to outpace the other on the path to Nikador. A constant, unspoken wager: who would land the final blow? The bond between Phainon and Mydei ran deeper than simple camaraderie - it was forged in quiet moments between conflict, tempered by hardship, and sealed by the kind of understanding that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. Phainon, ever the picture of composed amusement, took it all in stride. If anything, he found greater satisfaction in outmatching Mydei with words - a quiet victory he never felt the need to boast about - and offered little more than a faint smile when the inevitable sarcasm came in return.

Unfortunately for Mydei, he continued to fall into the traps Phainon laid with ease. Lines like “You're my only hope to transcribe this ancient relic,” or “Are you tired already?” were met with predictable sneers - and yet, somehow, they worked every time. Mydei’s frustration only fueled Phainon’s quiet amusement. Each verbal jab, each moment of exasperation, only served to deepen the unspoken bond between them, a delicate balance of rivalry and respect that neither could deny.

The enemies that met them now were not like the ones before - they moved with purpose, as though aware of who approached and why. No longer just mindless remnants or opportunistic scavengers, these foes fought with strategy, with spite, and with strength drawn from something ancient that still clung to the bones of Castrum Kremnos.

They came from sudden silence - slipping from broken archways and ivy-twined ruins like shadows wearing flesh. Quick and coordinated. One lunged for Mydei wielding a blade that sang through the air like scorched metal, while another circled Phainon with a reverence that felt almost religious. A test. A challenge.

Phainon moved deliberately - not slow, but unhurried, like a man certain of the outcome. The clash of steel echoed through the hollowed city as he parried and turned, weaving light and precision into something almost ceremonial. The climax wasn’t explosive. It was clean - a decisive thrust between the ribs of the last adversary, delivered with the grace of someone who had long since learned not to waste motion on pride.

As the enemy collapsed, the stone beneath them groaned. One of the broken arches, already cracked by age and strain, gave way under the shock of combat. With a low roar, it crumbled inward, slamming into the ground with a violent crash that sent up clouds of dust and shards of splintered rock.

Phainon stepped back, the weight of the moment settling around him. Bright blue eyes lifted to the wall of rubble now sealing off the path ahead - the only direct route to Nikador, now buried beneath stone and time. Dust hung in the air like ash, and silence pressed in again, broken only by the distant creak of the city shifting beneath itself.

He exhaled once through his nose. Not frustration - calculation.

“Now, if we’d just done what I suggested,” he said, a hand settling on his hips, “instead of you getting all high and mighty - or should I say, Mydei - we wouldn’t be in this situation.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. His tone was light, but his edge was unmistakable.

“why do you continue on like a bleating sheep trapped under a dromas’ tail? we both know this was your fault.”

“My fault?” he echoed with a hearty laugh. “Still able to crack a joke, I see, all hope isn’t lost yet.” He allowed himself a brief smile - first at the absurdity of it all, then at Mydei directly.

"Enough games, Alhaitham."

His voice cut through the stillness before his presence even entered the room - sharp, agitated, and all too familiar within these walls.

"Where is it?!"

Kaveh didn’t bother with courtesy. The concept of privacy - marked, as always, by the closed door - meant little to him today. Alhaitham’s so-called sanctuary of peace would not be spared. Not after the stunt he pulled. In Kaveh’s mind, boundaries had already been crossed- why should he be the one to show restraint?

He stood just inside the room, arms folded tightly across his chest, refusing to meet Alhaitham’s gaze. His jaw clenched, voice laced with accusation.

"Once again, you thrive off my misery. Don't play the fool! Don’t pretend you don't know what I'm talking about."

At last, his eyes flicked up, crimson irises burning with frustration and something dangerously close to betrayal. They locked onto the man he often considered the architect of his undoing.