Krysaos stared up at the red sky.
It didn't seem to change with the time.
Maybe, wherever he was... the length of the sun was different.
Or maybe... it was all fake? Maybe he was having a... dream or nightmare or... an illusion he couldn't cut.
If that was the case... he could only blame his shite luck.
"Lemme tell you a secret, boyo..." Krysaos sighed, "I never thought I was good enough."
He leaned back and let out a light chuckle... The sound carried across the blood-stained deck of the Sugar-Titted Siren.
"I mean... even back then, I got roped up in Tycon's plans-- didn't really have a say. Adventure here. Recover this artifact, there...
"After what happened... I had a new life, a new crew... I had guys and gals I could rely on.
"And to keep 'em... I pretended I was someone else."
Krysaos closed his eyes and breathed in the sea rot.
"I pretended... I was a good guy. I pretended to be brave... merciful-- just.
"I guess... I pretended for so long that... this is who I am now."
...Krysaos pursed his lips, "And why shouldn't I? It's who I wanted to be, so I changed. Whatever shite kind of guy I was before... now, I'm a certified badass."
He reached over to the side and pulled the Heart of the Ocean out of the sea god's spine. He wiped the blood off on his coat using the crook of his elbow.
"After all... I killed you, you piece of shite. I'm a f*cking godslayer."
The sea god didn't respond. He didn't move a gods-damned muscle.
There was a little hole on the front of his forehead and a bigger hole on the back of his head.
Apparently, that kind of injury was enough to kill a god.
"So, I've been thinkin..." A voice came off the ship's starboard side. "I wanna do something for our special sun, next moon."
Krysaos wanted to move... to see who it was? --or to stand up off of the corpse of the sea god? ...or maybe to hide, in case it was an enemy.
But... he was just so damned tired...
Thankfully, he heard a second voice... and the person it belonged to was just the guy he needed to hear.
...
"*Special* sun?" Tycondrius glared, "what... does that *mean?*"
"It's like an anniversary!" Squealed the battered and bruised Tarquin Wroe.
His voice was incredulous... like *he* could not believe he had to explain himself.
...Tycon was fairly certain that 'special sun' was not commonly understood without context.
However, Wroe was a friend and ally. Seeking to understand him was... not outside the expectations for such a relationship.
"An... anniversary, you say," Tycon pushed his lips to the side, "Then... it is a celebration that occurs... annually?"
"Yeah!" The blue-haired buffoon nodded, "But... no?"
"Which is it?"
"It's more like..." Wroe squeezed his eyes together... trying desperately to squeeze whatever thoughts were in his brain and transform them into human words...
Tycon took the moment to inspect the hull of the beached ship.
Some time ago, he'd sensed a familiar mana signature in its general direction.
...And considering the enemies he and Wroe had defeated in the past half-bell, the ship was a logical source.
"The hull is damaged closer towards the ship's bow," Tycon muttered. "We'll climb up on that side."
"I got it!" Wroe exclaimed, "It's... a 4-month interval of an anniversary! A uh... quad... riversary?"
Tycon gave the daeva a sideways glare, "Were you listening?"
"Yeah, we're climbing the bow," Wroe grinned. "But concerning our quadriversary?"
"That is not a real word," Tycon growled.
"Then what's the correct--"
Tycon waved his hand to cut the angelic fellow off, "--I do not have the patience for the topic... nor to discern the correct verbiage."
The faintest hint of a headache crept into the forefront of Tycon's skull.
He massaged the bridge of his nose as he took a deep breath, "Tell me, Mister Wroe... this... woman? Are you*known* to her?"
Tarquin Wroe spoke of... his goddess as if she were a regular mortal, an entity that could be courted-- even taken to Olea Garden... or a fate less cruel.
The man was in love.
It was tolerable in the past... as Wroe kept his 'love life' private.
"Y-yeah, she knows me," Wroe laughed.
It was an ugly laugh... more like a... titter, with its pitch so high.
Wroe shot his hand forward. Water mana from the hell-ocean circled in a sphere in front of his palm from which he drew his white and bluish ⌈Hexblade⌋.
"She... she gave me a sword," Wroe insisted. "See?"
"The mana-creation," Tycon gently pushed Wroe's wrist away, "Yes, I've seen it before. It's ostentatious, made of out an odd pearlescent material, and undeniably Elven. What of it?"
pαпᵈα-noνɐ1·сoМ "It's a sword, though!"
It was a blunt, vague representation of a sword. If Tycon had not previously seen Wroe utilize it in combat, he would have assumed it was... an overly complex, decorative vase.
"Your *sword,*" Tycon frowned, "is borrowed divine power coalesced into a mana-weapon."
"Yeah! But she gifted it to me personally, Boss!"
It was... awe-inspiring that the daeva could grin so wide despite his face being so bruised and swollen.
"Brother..." Tycon lowered his voice, "Are you the only one gifted with such a blade?"
Wroe halted his steps...
"I uh... well-- I dunno."
"Was it a gift, Tarquin Wroe?" Tycon whispered... "Or... have you deluded yourself into thinking that?"
He stood still, watching the figurative cogs of thought spinning in Wroe's eyes.
...Had he never once considered the thought?
Tycon's relationship with Wroe was more than employer and subordinate. They were friends and traveling companions. They were allies with a strong mutual trust, both on and off the field.
Wroe's pact with his goddess was... between a worshipper and a greater power.
It was not a pact of equals.
If that man sought to dedicate his all and everything to a heartless, silent god...
--then that future... would be a cruel one.
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