Work Text:
In the sunset, the sea is every color imaginable: dark blue and black, red and brown. Waves rise and fall in a rhythm heralded by the sea breeze, and birds squawk and circle the white-tipped ripples. A hundred feet above the brackish water, Phainon struggles to breathe, a strong hand wrapped around his throat as a Titankin dangles him over the churning tides.
“Your destiny ends here, Chrysos Heir,” the Titankin rumbles. He stands at the safety of the cliff edge, Phainon’s greatsword in one hand as the abandoned temple of the Ocean Titan looms over them. “Beg, and I might plunge your own sword through your chest instead of leaving you to the mercy of the sea.”
It would be a steep drop. If the sheer height of the cliff doesn’t snap his neck, Phainon knows the rocks jutting out of the water would shred him to ribbons. And then there’s drowning; Phainon is a capable swimmer, but days of continuous battle and the resulting injuries of such an endeavor don’t exactly place the odds in his favor. Chances are his battered limbs would go into shock and give out once he hits the water, or if they don’t, he’ll sink, weighed down by his armor and exhaustion, and vanish into the depths with all the grace of a boulder.
What an ending. What a terrible, ironic ending, for a man who had thought he had risen above adversity, only to fall to his death. The prophecy be damned; Phainon’s anger and regret at not being able to fulfill it is second only to his dissatisfaction with his own mortality, and the haunting, aggravating realization that everything he has done, everything he has bled and killed and grieved for has been all for nothing.
Phainon sighs. What a pathetic way to live.
What a pathetic way to die.
.:|:.
When Phainon received a summon from Aglaea amid his training, he hadn’t thought much of it. The Chrysos Heirs, or at least, the members who actually care about the prophecy and bothered to show up in Okhema, had been working together for almost a year now; summons for mission briefings are slowly becoming common, and Phainon is thrilled to know that every successful mission under his belt brings him closer to his destiny. He concludes his training dutifully, as any proper Hero of Amphoreus should, and once he has arrived at the Hero’s Bath, he stands before their leader in the sprawling expanse of marble and water, worlds away from the wood and greenery of his home village.
Apparently, it isn’t just Phainon who has been summoned to Aglaea’s side this morning.
Beside him, arms crossed and scowl already in place, is Mydei. Unlike Phainon, who arrived in his training tunic and flashes Aglaea a friendly smile upon his arrival, Mydei has entered dressed and armored in traditional Kremnoan attire, silent and shrouded in an air of regal indifference. Hotheaded ruffian or not, there’s never any question that Mydei is a prince. It emanates from him just as naturally as heat from a torch.
(During their first meeting together, Phainon can’t stop staring at him; Mydei’s appearance and princely demeanor are the stuff of odysseys, and admittedly, Phainon can’t help but be drawn to him. But then Mydei opened his mouth to insult his fellow Heirs, and though his regal charm did not fade, Phainon found it easier to see that the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos is just as human as everyone else.)
Phainon glances around, trying to locate Castorice or Tribbie to determine if they will be joining them for this briefing. But they are nowhere to be found; it seems it’ll only be him and Mydei on this mission.
Aglaea speaks. “Our soldiers have discovered one of Phagousa’s abandoned temples.” She stands before them, regal and beautiful, every bit the demigod she’s supposed to be. Phainon wonders, once he has earned his coreflame, if he will become as breathtaking as her. “Troves of wealth and knowledge rest inside it, but we have no way of acquiring them due to the Titankin lurking in its corridors.”
She pauses, waiting for her fellow Heirs’ input. When none comes, she continues. “This is a standard mission with no other objectives. Simply clear the temple and leave once it’s safe for the rest of our soldiers.”
Sounds straightforward enough. Phainon nods, confident in his and Mydei’s abilities. Who knows? This could be a good opportunity to break Mydei’s winning streak from the last two missions. “Understood, Lady Aglaea. When do we depart?”
“About that.” For once, Aglaea hesitates. “Only one Heir will be sent on this mission.”
Silence. Then Mydei uncrosses his arms. “What.”
“The ever-wise Elder Caenis—” At this, Aglaea seems only a hair’s breadth away from speaking through gritted teeth “--Gently reminds us that even though the Chrysos Heirs have been given temporary authority over this city, the Council of Elders still have a say on how much of Okhema’s resources we can ‘squander.’ Hence, the Elders have reduced our budget for missions.” She sighs. “We only have enough provisions to send one resource for this mission. One more Heir will cost us far too much—”
“Lady Aglaea, with all due respect,” Phainon cuts in, “our assignments are often tasked to battalions rather than individuals. Two Heirs per mission is the bare minimum. If the Elders refuse to support us, then they can go take up arms and risk their lives for Amphoreus in our stead.”
“He’s right,” Mydei agrees. “As honorable as it is to die in battle in my culture, to lay down my life for those entitled, senile old fossils is not a duty I wish to bear.”
“I understand your concerns,” Algaea sighs. “And rest assured, I am working to change the Elders’ minds. But for the time being, we must abide by their policies.” If she weren’t the supposedly infallible leader of the Chrysos Heirs, and therefore must refrain from making physical tells, Phainon thinks she might have pinched the bridge of her nose. “I summoned both of you to discuss who is more fit to carry out this assignment. Lord Phainon, Prince Mydeimos, if you please.”
“No,” Mydei says firmly. “I refuse to participate in an ill-prepared mission and create the impression that I am a witless lapdog at the Elders’ beck and call. Furthermore, If the Deliverer were the one to go, you are asking him to risk his destiny.”
Phainon blinks, surprised that Mydei has come to his defense. Regardless, he agrees with him wholeheartedly. This mission is far too unpredictable and limited for his liking; if he doesn’t know any better, he’d consider it a suicide mission (Not that Mydei can die, if he were to go, but the point still stands. Being killed repeatedly in a mysterious, dangerous temple doesn’t sound like a fun time either). But then he sees Aglaea’s face; Aglaea is too stoic to beg for their cooperation, but she seems close to doing it now if her wide eyes and pinched expression are any indications. Phainon thinks of his training, and how much he has improved since arriving in Okhema. Since meeting Mydei. He speaks before his mind can catch up with his words.
“I’ll do it.”
Algaea raises her eyebrows. Mydei gapes at him. “What.”
“I’ll do it,” Phainon repeats, voice firmer than before. “I’ll take on this mission.”
Aglaea blinks.
“Have you lost your mind?” Mydei snaps. He presses closer, all princely composure thrown out the window. “You risk the destiny you yearn for, Deliverer.”
“So what?” Phainon regards Mydei with a sheepish smile. “We’ve done hundreds of extermination missions together; doing it alone shouldn’t be too challenging.”
“You’ll get yourself killed,” Mydei hisses.
“Then perhaps I should,” Phainon shoots back. “If doing this mission alone proves my abilities to you, then I’ll go through with it no matter what.”
Mydei opens his mouth. Closes it. Phainon waits for it, the inevitable retort that characterizes their back-and-forth exchanges, but it never comes. Instead of answering, Mydei makes a frustrated noise and heads for the exit. Phainon eyes widen. “Mydei, wait—”
But Mydei doesn’t turn back. He leaves without another word, and a heaviness marred by guilt settles in Phainon’s chest. Perhaps he has made a mistake. “Mydei—”
There is a strange knowing glint in Aglaea’s eyes as she watches the two of them, but it disappears as soon as Phainon turns to regard her fully.
“It’s settled then,” she says, her usual composure masking her true emotions again. “Lord Phainon, you will be our sole combatant for this mission. May Kephale watch over you and guarantee your success.”
A few minutes later, after a discussion about his destination and what time Tribbie will come to fetch him (The morning after, so Phainon will have to spend the night fighting the Titankin or tucked away and resting in a hopefully safe area), Phainon heads out of the hall. But before he can retreat to his quarters and begin his preparations, he spots Mydei nursing a goblet in the hallway.
“I thought you left,” says Phainon.
Mydei shrugs and pushes off the wall he’s been leaning on. He saunters closer, all sharp lines and leonine grace as he stops before his fellow Chrysos Heir. “You shouldn’t have agreed to that mission.”
“Too late for that,” Phainon snorts. “Look, I understand what you're getting at; I’m frustrated too. But our duties come before whatever animosity we have with the Elders.” He smiles. “It’ll be just like our competitions, right? Only that my dear rival isn’t around to steal my kills.”
Apparently, that’s the wrong thing to say. Mydei’s frown twists to a snarl. “You will not have me watching your back. If you fall, no one will be around to catch you.”
Phainon scowls at him. “I can take a fall.”
“You don’t have to,” Mydei retorts. “Not when I’m around.” He is closer now. Too close. Phainon’s heart thunders in his ribcage as he realizes Mydei has crowded him against a wall, his hand inches from curling around Phainon’s waist. The part of Phainon that enjoys competing with Mydei, who yearns for his praise and is thrilled by his attention, is exalted by this.
“Don’t die,” Mydei murmurs. “Return to Okhema, or I’ll drag you back myself.”
Phainon doesn’t breathe. He can’t, not with the way that Mydei is watching him, dark and predatory like he means to draw the weakness out of Phainon’s soul. Mydei’s eyes flick to Phainon’s lips; his hand lingers closer to the other man's waist, as though yearning to grab it.
Phainon almost asks him to.
Before Phainon can speak, Mydei pulls away. Then he exits the hallway, leaving Phainon flushed in the corner with his heart thudding in his ribcage.
What was that?
Phainon groans and presses a hand to his chest. If he were an ordinary person, he might’ve sunk to the floor to scrutinize the Kremnoan’s actions and how badly he is affected by them. He would also consider Mydei’s words, specifically his last-ditch attempt at discouraging Phainon from going on his mission.
But Phainon isn’t an ordinary person.
He is a Chrysos Heir. He is not meant to contemplate his comrade’s actions, only to accomplish whatever mission his leader and his people require of him.
With a heavy sigh, Phainon stands at his full height. He collects himself, summoning a confidence he does not feel and heads straight to his quarters.
A man like Phainon can’t afford the luxury of hesitation.
.:|:.
It’s been three days since Phainon was supposed to be back in Okhema. He has not been able to head to his rendezvous spot with Tribbie, far too occupied with the Ocean’s temples surprisingly formidable Titankin residents. There had been more of them than Aglaea had warned him about, and he had spent day and night fighting inside this hell of a temple.
Mydei would have been thrilled to compete if he had joined him.
Mydei.
Phainon thinks of their meeting in the hallway, of the aggressive but barely masked concern in his fellow Heir’s words. Mydei has said he’ll drag Phainon back himself if he doesn’t return to Okhema. Not that Phainon wants him to; he may be injured and exhausted beyond belief, but his pride as a warrior and a Chrysos Heir refuses to have the Kremnoan save him.
Still, seeing Mydei one last time would’ve made the entire ordeal more bearable.
Phainon musters a glare at the Titankin. His voice, hoarse and bruised from the hand wrapped around his throat, barely manages to grit out his words. “You may have won today, Titankin. But I swear on Kephale’s name that you will not be the one to kill me.”
“Of course not,” the Titankin replies. “A butcher like you has slain thousands of my kin and will continue to do so if not dealt with. An outsider I may be, but I refuse to stain my hands with the blood of a murderer.” His hand tightens on Phainon’s neck. “I will not be the one to kill you, human.” His eyes glint. “But the ocean will.”
Then he throws Phainon off the cliff.
As he falls, Phainon becomes aware of several things at once: the wind, whipping through his hair and causing the metal embellishments of his attire to quiver. The sky, gray and speckled with circling sea birds. The temple, dark and imposing, all harsh lines and jutting spires as the shape of the Titankin who threw him made to retreat to its entrance.
But he never will.
Phainon blinks, then he sees it: a brilliant flash of crimson, like fire, cutting through the Titankin like a knife through butter. Then crystals; sharp and gleaming like blood, expanding from a single point in the distance and rapidly skewering the remaining Titankin.
The crimson flash turns, bright as the sun, and Phainon stares back, his cape fluttering uselessly behind him like a pair of melted wax wings.
When Phainon plunges into the sea, his gaze meets a familiar pair of hazel eyes as Mydei leaps off the cliff to follow him.
.:|:.
The water swallows him whole.
Phainon gasps, the ice-cold sea shocking his limbs. Lightning cracks across the sky, thunder roaring in his ears. His vision goes dizzy, and the saltwater burns his skin, against his injuries and the necklace of purple bruises around his neck, and sends white-hot pain coursing through his veins. He writhes, forcing his exhausted limbs to kick and push as he struggles to keep his head above the water.
The first wave crashes into him.
It plunges Phainon beneath the surface, crushing the air from his lungs and replacing it with the sea. The salt stings his eyes, the liquid darkness sends his mind into overdrive, and he forgets which way is the sky. Phainon kicks desperately, the water choking him not unlike the Titankin’s hand. Air. He needs air. He cannot breathe, and he will never take breathing for granted again, as long as he can get air, as long as he can breathe again—
—By some miracle, he breaks the surface.
Phainon gasps, throat raw and eyes stinging with salt and desperation. He claws at the water, thrashing desperately, when the second waves rises.
Falls.
A third wave. A fourth.
Phainon feels like the toy duck he and Cyrene had played with as children, plunging it repeatedly into a basin of water and giggling to themselves as it bobbed to the surface. No matter what, the toy never sank, always defying the odds because it is in its nature to rise.
Phainon barely rises now.
As he curls beneath the depths, pushed and pulled by waves and lungs full of seawater, he thinks of Cyrene. He thinks of her face, her smile, and the searing warmth of her palms as they run hand in hand in the meadow. Phainon closes his eyes. He may not have accomplished his mission, and he’ll never be able to hold up his end of the prophecy, but at least he’ll die thinking of someone he loves. Not a satisfying end, but good enough, for someone like him.
“Damn it, Phainon!”
The sudden arm wrapped around his middle shocks Phainon’s eyes into the opening, and he gasps when a solid, warm body drags him to the surface. Mydei pants and growls behind him, his cold lips inches from the back of Phainon’s neck, and he treads through the water with strength and purpose as he starts pulling them to safety.
“You’re an idiot,” Mydei snarls. “You absolute, utter fool, where the fuck were you? You made Tribbie cry with worry—”
Phainon can barely hear him. Can barely think, and he lays limp as a doll as Mydei goes through a long list of all the people he has worried. Phainon is tired. So, so tired. Tired from drowning, from fighting for hours on this mission and years for most of his life. The prophecy is a constant weight on his shoulders, along with the loss of his family and friends and the shameful, arsenic desire to avenge them. The weaker part of him, the part that is distantly thrilled that Mydei has come to his rescue, wants to let go of his grief and fury and focus on Mydei’s impossible warmth against the frigid water.
But he can’t. Shouldn’t. A man like Phainon can’t afford the luxury of rest.
But he’s so, so tired.
Phainon does not remember reaching the shore— one second he was adrift in the waves, anchored only by Mydei’s strong arm as he paddles to the surface, and the next, he’s lying on the sand, cape spread out behind him like a broken pair of wings. Mydei’s wet face looms in front of his own, his fury blazing like the sun.
He is achingly handsome, even in anger. Especially in anger.
“Stay awake,” Mydei growls. “You better stay awake, damn it, because if you die, I’ll bring you back and kill you myself.”
Phainon blinks. The world is out of focus, darkness creeping along its edges. He blinks again. Mydei has crawled closer, their noses almost touching, and Phainon remembers their meeting in the hallway, a lifetime ago.
He has heard that healers exhale air into drowned sailors’ mouths to revive them.
He wonders if Mydei will kiss him.
“Stay awake,” Mydei growls. Orders. But there is desperation on his face, foreign anguish that pulls on his brows and trembles the line of his mouth. It’s a strange thing, to see a man often consumed by anger wrought with fear. Fear for Phainon. When was the last time someone feared for him?
Phainon thinks of Cyrene, who had cried when he broke his leg chasing fairies through the meadows. He raises his hand and cups the hinge of Mydei’s jaw.
The Kremnoan raises his hand to cover Phainon’s own. “Phainon,” Mydei whispers, voice raw. Desperate. “Stay with me.”
Phainon doesn’t get the chance to respond. Before he can speak, the world plunges into darkness.
.:|:.
Phainon wakes to warmth.
His body still aches and stings, but the searing heat pressed behind his back and around his waist is a thousand times better than the stinging chill of the sea.
It’s even better than his bed.
“You’re awake,” a voice speaks close to his ear. “By Nikador’s tenacity, you scared me.”
Phainon sighs, warm and content, the words drifting into one ear and out the other. He closes his eyes once more when a hand settles on his head, stroking his hair and scratching lightly on his scalp, tender and careful with the bruises around his neck. Phainon squirms and pushes into the person’s palm, yearning for more.
“Eager, aren’t you?” a voice chuckles near his ear. “Perhaps having someone hold you in your sleep will quell your recklessness.”
Hm. Words. Phainon had bothered to decipher those, once.
He hums, a wordless plea for his new favorite bed to shut up, and nuzzles closer when it does. Phainon breathes in the scent closest to him, a mixture of salt and sweat and sun-dried fabric, and gives in to the pull of sleep once more.
.:|:.
The next time Phainon opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of a half-naked Mydei sitting cross-legged a few feet away from him, digging his dagger into some kind of shell. Phainon takes stock of their surroundings. They are in a cave, with the entrance offering a picturesque view of the sea and the jagged cliffs where the Ocean Titan temple is situated. The sky is clearer than yesterday, bluer too, and the position of the sun indicates it’s afternoon.
Did Phainon sleep through the whole night?
When Phainon sits up to stretch his limbs, he realizes he is not wearing his own clothes: his pauldron and gauntlets have been removed, and the rest of his clothing is folded neatly and placed by his side. Instead, he is dressed in a familiar crimson robe with traditional Kremnoan embroidery.
That explains why Mydei is only wearing his armor-covered pants then.
At that moment, bleary memories seep into Phainon’s head: being thrown into the sea, Mydei leaping off the cliff to save him. Drowning, then being saved. Falling asleep in Mydei’s arms as they lie on Phainon’s cape.
The sea may not have killed him, but he’s sure his mortification will.
Mydei chooses that moment to acknowledge him. “Welcome back to the world of the living.” He finally wrenches open the shell and puts it down on the sand to grab another one. He has a whole pile of them. “Feel free to get up; lunch is almost ready.”
Phainon can’t find it in himself to answer. Instead, he gapes shamelessly at Mydei, memories replaying in his head as he grapples with the fact that Mydei is here. With him. Mydei came to his rescue. “You saved me.”
Silence.
Then Mydei grunts. “Yeah.”
Phainon waits for Mydei’s admonishment, for him to gloat that he was right about the mission and Phainon should have heeded to his insight. But it doesn’t come, and Mydei seems more occupied with prying open shells than dwelling on Phainon’s failure.
Fine. If Mydei won’t bring it up, then Phainon will not either. He glances at the cape under him and remembers Phainon cuddling him. He looks up. Mydei is watching him watch the cape, his hooded hazel eyes daring him to bring it up. It feels like a challenge, to see if he’d back down and retreat. Phainon refuses to do so, not in front of him. “You held me in my sleep.”
Mydei pauses. Again, Phainon waits, waiting to be ignored or perhaps hear a joke about how embarrassingly clingy Phainon had gotten when they were lying together. Again, neither comes.
“So I have,” says Mydei. “It would be a waste to have you freeze to death, after going through the trouble of saving you from drowning.”
“You could have drowned too,” says Phainon. He frowns. “I mean, even if you can’t die, drowning forever…sucks,” he finishes lamely.
“Perhaps.” Mydei shrugs. “But then you would’ve found my bloated, half-alive corpse and used it to float to shore.”
Phainon doesn’t even have the words to relay how much that repulses him.
Mydei laughs at whatever face Phainon is making and tosses him a dagger. “Seeing as you’re well enough to interrogate me, you can help with lunch. Come here; the one who can shuck the most oysters wins.”
“What’s the prize?” Phainon asks automatically, but he finds he’s eager to get up and compete, tempted by the idea of things being normal again between them.
Mydei shrugs. “Dunno, more oysters? It’s not like we have a surplus of provisions right now.”
Right, provisions. Phainon has used up the limited supplies he bought for his mission (he had lost his greatsword too, a regrettable loss that sends a bitter pang in his chest), and based on the familiar coolness of poultice smeared against his skin beneath the robe, and the bandages wrapped around the bruises on his neck, Mydei had used his own provisions to dress Phainon’s injuries.
He had even surrendered his robe to replace Phainon’s soaked clothes.
Guilt curls in Phainon’s chest.
Mydei had done so much for him. The least Phainon can do is help him with their meal.
When Phainon rises, he finds himself stumbling, his coordination akin to a day-old fawn. Immediately, he finds Mydei at his side, grabbing his arm and pulling him upright.
“You don’t have to coddle me.” Phainon scowls at him. “I can take a fall.”
“You don’t have to,” Mydei retorts. “Not when I’m around.” He smells like brine and salt, and Phainon is reminded of the sea and the Kremnoan holding him as he sleeps. He had drowned in both, last night.
They settle beside each other, and Mydei gives Phainon an oyster to shuck and eat so he can “regain his energy.” Phainon stares at it. He had never eaten an oyster before: his land-locked village did not have access to the sea, and the ones brought in by merchants were too expensive for his family to afford. When he came to Okhema, he did not have time for lavish meals either; there were always civilians to protect, missions to complete. A man like Phainon can’t afford the luxury of indulgence.
Perhaps it is a different situation for the crown prince of Kremnos.
From the easy way he pries open the shells to the manner by which he slurps down a few choice oysters, Phainon can tell that Mydei is used to this kind of luxury. Or perhaps it isn’t a luxury to him; Castrum Kremnos had been a seaside city; maybe oysters and all sorts of seafood had been the locals’ daily fare.
“Don’t be nervous,” says Mydei, mistaking his silence for hesitation. He has swallowed his food and is looking pointedly at his companion. As brutish as he is in battle, Mydei never speaks with his mouth full. Perhaps that is one of the lessons drilled into him as the supposedly future king of his people. “It’s normal to eat them raw, so you don’t have to worry about stomachaches.”
“What if I’m allergic to them?” Phainon muses.
Mydei gives him a sharp grin. “Only one way to find out, Deliverer.”
Phainon’s heart stammers in his chest, and he laughs to cover it up. “Yeah, alright, you’ve convinced me.” Mydei pauses his work to instruct Phainon on how to shuck his own oyster. With the Kremnoan’s guidance, Phainon uses his dagger to clumsily loosen the meat from its shell and gently tilts it to his mouth.
At first, he fears it would be slimy. But Phainon finds that the oyster goes down well, smooth and silky and softer than a honeycake. The flavor is delightfully salty, with a hint of sweetness and a thalassic undertone that is almost minerally in its richness. Then Phainon swallows, and the oyster is gone as quickly as it came.
He wants another one.
When he grabs another oyster, he sees Mydei watching him with rapt attention. The Kremnoan chuckles. “Not bad, huh?”
“Not bad,” Phainon echoes, smiling back. He scrapes the oyster loose, eager to experience its taste again. “Where did you find these?”
Mydei jerks his thumb to the rest of the cave behind him. “I was looking for fresh water. Ended up finding oysters instead.”
Right, water. Phainon licks his lips and muses that if they only had water to pair with the oysters, this would be the perfect meal. He takes a sip of the oyster liquor instead. Then it hits him. “You came here without water?!”
“I brought enough to tide us over for a few hours,” Mydei grits out. “How was I supposed to know we'll be stuck in some random cave for two nights?! For all I know, rescuing you will only take an entire afternoon, and we’ll be back to Okhema in no time!”
He continues before Phainon can speak. “Look, it’ll be fine. I don’t know if your waterlogged brain remembers, but this temple isn’t far from a road leading to Okhema. I borrowed a Dromas on my way out of the city; we’ll hitch a ride on it tomorrow morning, and we should arrive at Okhema’s gates by sundown.”
That sounds surprisingly reasonable. Yet…
Phainon frowns at him. “What about Tribbie? Didn’t you tell her to meet you in a few days or something?”
“Oh, that.” Mydei pointedly returns to shucking oysters. “No one knows I came here to find you.”
What.
What.
If Phainon hadn’t been holding an oyster in one hand and a dagger in the other, he would’ve tried to punch Mydei for his sheer recklessness. “Mydei, what the f—”
Mydei groans from the depths of his soul. “Stop nagging me and save your energy.” He passes Phainon a perfectly deshelled oyster. “This is the closest thing you have to a break in days. Make the most of it, Deliver. If you faint tomorrow, I won’t carry you back to Okhema.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Phainon snaps without heat. Mydei snorts. Phainon can’t hide his grin, and he turns to the oyster Mydei gave him with a giddy warmth in his chest. If Mydei notices him inch closer, he doesn’t mention it.
They resume shucking oysters until Phainon surrenders and declares that Mydei has won their competition, and he would like to take on the very important duty of taste-testing the oysters rather than shucking them.
In response, Mydei throws a shell at him and tells him to shut up and keep working. This spurs another argument between them.
.:|:.
Phainon doesn’t remember falling asleep. When his eyes flutter open, he realizes he has burrowed beneath his cape, cocooned in the silky inner fabric. Upon emerging, he sees the blue sky beyond the mouth of the cave has been replaced by the darkness of the evening. The tumbling waves of the sea are no more; in their place is a smooth, mirror-like abyss. It reflects the thousands of stars in the night sky, an inky infinity hiding the secrets of leviathans.
A campfire cackles beside him. Phainon turns from his cape and sees Mydei nursing another pile of oysters, equally transfixed by the horizon as he is. He is impossibly stunning by the fire: the red-orange flames bring out the hazel of his eyes and the sharpness of his jawline, and the flickering light defines the build of his forearms. Phainon watches the column of Mydei’s throat move as he swallows.
A thrum of want stirs his chest.
Mydei indicates their pile of dinner. “I hope you aren’t sick of eating oysters.”
“It’s either your shellfish or the rocks,” Phainon answers. He sits up, hoping that his staring wasn’t too obvious, and beams when he finds that his limbs feel stronger now. He indicates the pile. “What if I try to cook an oyster over the fire? That should give us some variety.”
“Be my guest,” says Mydei. “But I like it raw.” He licks his lips, holding Phainon’s gaze, and something about his stare causes Phainon to flush and sputter.
“I-I need to stretch my legs.”
He marches away to the bark of Mydei’s laugh, fuming and wondering if Mydei means what Phainon thinks he means (or maybe Phainon is just more messed up than he likes to think). Before he can dwell in his head any longer, his jaw drops when he sees it on the other side of the cave.
His greatsword. His beautiful, wonderful greatsword, weathered and slightly dented, but still the weapon closest to his heart.
Phainon never thought he’d see it again.
“You…” Phainon glances at his companion in disbelief. “How did you get my sword?”
“I returned to the temple while you were asleep,” Mydei says simply, as though he decided to take a stroll through a meadow rather than return to the place where Phainon almost died. “I finished off the rest of the Titankin; you took care of most of them, but there were some stragglers. I found it near the entrance.”
Phainon nods and takes his weapon, securing it to his back. The familiar weight feels good, reassuring; Phainon feels more like himself again. “I…I’m glad you found it. Thank you.”
Mydei blinks. Then he flushes, ears red, and resumes shucking oysters. “Don’t lose it again. Ores aren’t cheap, Deliverer.”
Phainon snorts. "Is that why you choose to fight with your fists? And here I thought crown princes are supposed to be rich."
He laughs and ducks out of the way as Mydei chucks an oyster shell at him.
As they eat dinner, Phainon’s greatsword lovingly placed by his cape, Phainon keeps an eye on the campfire. He failed to notice it a while ago, but he realizes that the red-orange flames are tipped with an unnatural crimson, tinted the exact same shade as the fire Mydei summons when using his abilities. And now that he considers it, he also notices that Mydei is extremely warm, emanating heat like a campfire himself. Is that how he managed to keep Phainon warm the entire night yesterday? By Kephale…
Phainon turns to his oyster to distract himself.
“We used to eat oysters with a squeeze of lemon juice,” says Mydei. He seems to have mistaken Phainon’s pointed stare at his dinner as an interest in oysters, and Phainon isn’t about to correct him. “Pairing it with wine is also common amongst my people. As for myself, I prefer dining on oysters with pomegranate juice.”
“I see it has always been your drink of choice,” says Phainon. He frowns. “Doesn’t the taste of the juice overpower the taste of the oysters?”
“Perhaps.” Mydei shrugs. “But one can always take a swig of water to cleanse his palate.” He leans back on his hands. “Maybe someday, we can dine on oysters and wine in Okhema. Among other things, of course.”
Phainon imagines dining together with Mydei in one of Okhema’s many restaurants, already smiling at the excitement in Mydei’s eyes as the scent of food carries over from the kitchens. He visualizes the spread they would indulge in: Fresh slices of Sageore fruit; cold and full and shimmering with dew. Thick slabs of Dromas steak, beautifully charred with their juices dripping on the serving plates. And of course, oysters; as fresh and delightful as they are now, accompanied by lemon juice and sauces and a rainbow of wines and beverages to choose from. Then they’d have figs. Grapes. Cheese, so much cheese. And for dessert: Golden honeycakes, fresh-baked and fragrant, dotted with seeds and berries with luscious honey dripping from the sides.
Phainon would be ecstatic. And Mydei, who Phainon knows has the bigger appetite between the two of them, would be ravenous. Phainon sighs, very much enjoying the idea of eating together with Mydei in the city, and turns back to the sad, cold oyster in his hands. He swallows it before the novelty can wear off, and wishes very badly that he has some water to wash it down with.
As though hearing Phainon’s thoughts, thunder rumbles, and rain begins to fall. The Chrysos Heirs rise, pleased and grateful for the water, and they cup their hands over their mouths and drink, standing and hopping under the drizzle like children.
Phainon doesn’t didn’t realize how long he had to suppress his thirst until he took a sip from his cupped palms. Then his thirst hits him in full force, his bone-dry mouth craving moisture, and he drinks with gusto, Mydei just as desperate beside him.
Soon, the drizzle turns into a full-on deluge, and they find themselves back in the safety of the cave. To Phainon’s delight, he finds a tuft of reeds nearby, and he cuts a sizeable amount and settles cross-legged beside the fire, beginning to weave a basket.
Mydei watches him curiously. “I didn’t know you could weave.”
“We made baskets back home,” Phainon answers. “I wasn’t always a soldier by profession.” As his fingers pull and thread the reeds with practiced grace, he hums a traditional song he would sing with Cyrene as she taught him how to weave. Mydei watches, enraptured, and Phainon hands him the finished basket to start another one. “Use that to collect rainwater.”
The basket doesn’t leak, because Phainon has been taught by the best. He grins as Mydei returns with palpable amazement on his face, and Phainon hands him his half-finished basket. “Now you try.”
Mydei stares at it as though it were a particularly vexing puzzle. “I don’t know how to weave.”
“I’ll teach you,” says Phainon. “In exchange for you teaching me how to shuck oysters earlier.” He laughs at Mydei’s expression. “What? Is the crown prince too royal to engage in commoners’ work?”
“It’s not that,” Mydei answers quickly, ears flushed again. Phainon thinks he looks adorable when he’s flustered. “I…didn’t know you can weave.” He pauses, gathering his words. “I wonder if that might’ve been your profession if you didn’t become…a soldier.” If you didn’t become a Chrysos Heir.
Phainon blinks, surprised by his honesty. He grabs a handful of reeds. “Perhaps. Though weaving isn’t the kind of work I like; making baskets is more of a duty than a passion.” He smiles softly. “I think I’ll always be a soldier in every lifetime.” He looks up. “How about you? Would you have wanted to be a king if you didn’t get caught up in the prophecy?”
Mydei does not speak, his hands slowly mimicking the practiced movements of Phainon’s own fingers. Phainon wonders if he asked something he shouldn’t have when Mydei breaks the silence. “I don’t know.”
“How come?” Phainon asks.
“I don’t know,” Mydei repeats. If this were an ordinary day in Okhema, his tone would’ve taken on his characteristic sharp edge when he’s annoyed. Or hurt. But it remains even, almost contemplative, and Mydei resumes talking. “Of course, I’ve dreamed of being a king when I was a boy. But after everything that’s happened since then…” He lowers his head. “...I would rather experience the world from the ground, rather than just observe it from a throne.”
Phainon laughs softly, gently, mutual in their love for the world. For Amphoreus. “No wonder you joined the Chrysos Heirs. You want to save the world too.”
“Among other things,” Mydei rolls his eyes, but his expression is light. “Though I reckon we define ‘saving the world’ differently. You want to bear the world. I merely want to see it. We are not the same.” He wrinkles his nose. “And don’t phrase it like that. ‘Save the world?’ By Nikador’s sacrifice, you’re going to make me sound like you, golden boy.”
Phainon cringes. “I don’t sound like that!”
Mydei scoffs. “Oh, piss off, you’re practically the poster boy for our cause. For fuck’s sake, we should start calling you Captain Amphoreus or some shit.”
By Kephale’s name, “Captain Amphoreus” sounds terrible. And what does that make Mydei, with his red color scheme and iron armor? “Iron Man”? What a joke.
“‘Captain Amphoreus’ sounds stupid,” Phaion grumbles. “You should stick with calling me ‘Deliverer.’”
“Will do,” Mydei laughs as he finally completes his basket. His handiwork is too loose to hold water, with visible gaps between the woven reeds. Phainon doesn’t bother to point out the flaws; Mydei’s basket is good enough to hold oyster shells.
As soon as he sets down his work, Mydei takes his braid and gently unravels it. Then he starts to braid it again. At Phainon’s curious gaze, he snorts. “Never seen a man braid his hair?”
“I saw the other Kremnoan warriors have braids too,” says Phainon. “It’s not just a fashion statement, is it?”
“Of course not.” Mydei begins to comb through the rest of his hair with his fingers. Phainon watches him, watching his forefinger glide through the silky tresses. He wonders if Mydei’s hair is as soft as it looks. “Warriors from my home braid a portion of their hair as is tradition. Once you suffer a defeat in combat, the braid is cut off. Hence the longer the braid, the longer a Kremnoan warrior has gone undefeated.”
“When was the last time you cut your braid?” Phainon asks.
Mydei grins crookedly at him, sharp and confident in the firelight. “I’ve never had to do so.”
No wonder Mydei’s braid is longer than the rest of his hair.
Phainon hums in acknowledgment, a part of him, the same part of him that has always been weak to anything related to Mydei, extremely pleased at the thought of the Kremnoan’s mastery of combat. Mydei is strong. Skilled. Capable. The thought of his formidability sends another thrum of heat in Phainon’s chest.
Phainon startles when he feels warm fingers on the nape of his neck. Then they travel upward, tugging on a lock of his hair with unmistakable purpose.
Phainon resists the urge to groan.
“Easy,” Mydei murmurs close to his ear. “I’ll braid your hair, to flaunt your mettle as a warrior.”
Phainon’s heart beats rabbit-quick in his chest as Mydei settles behind him, his front warm against Phainon’s back. Phainon is inadvertently reminded of how they had slept together the night before, and he wonders if they’ll sleep together again tonight. He speaks to distract himself from such thoughts. “But my hair’s too short.”
“It’ll grow longer.” Steady, capable fingers. Strong. Angular. They pull on more tresses of Phainon’s hair, and Phainon shivers when the pad of Mydei’s thumb brushes the shell of his ear.
“Is it alright for me to participate in your people’s customs?” Phainon whispers. He feels weak. Shapeless. Mydei’s touch is the blazing heat of the sun, and Phainon is melting wax in his hands.
“I’m the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos,” says Mydei, voice low. Intimate. He tugs with particular force, and Phainon resists the urge to lean into his touch. “The penultimate authority of my people and culture. Trust me–” His lips brush the back of Phainon’s neck. “--You can do whatever you want.”
By Kephale’s name.
Phainon pounces on him, frustrated and hot with a different kind of hunger. He’s had enough of being teased, of being toyed with; a man can only endure so much, and Mydei is achingly handsome and he leapt off a cliff to save Phainon and looked after him, and Phainon wants nothing more than to keep kissing him forever.
He whines when Mydei pulls back, chasing his lips, and Phainon groans with satisfaction when the crown prince pins him against his own cape, the white inner fabric spreading behind Phainon’s back like a pair of wings. Mydei exudes heat above him, always unnaturally warm due to his abilities, and Phainon stares and stares because he’s drawn to Mydei like a curious youth is drawn to the sun.
“Eager, aren’t you?” Mydei chuckles. He has both of Phainon wrists pinned above his head, and by Kephale, Phainon craves this, craves him, and he swears he would learn how to fly if it means he can hear more of that tender, teasing command in Mydei’s voice.
“Get on with it,” Phainon hisses.
“Get on with what, Deliverer?” Mydei taunts with faux innocence. He leans closer, kissing the spot beneath Phainon’s ear. “I’m afraid you’ll have to enlighten me.”
Mean. He’s so mean. But his words send heat to Phainon’s belly, the thrum in his chest scalding in its intensity, and he groans, face red. “Mydei—” His voice rises, then sweetens when Mydei laves gentle kisses on his jaw. “By Kephale, you—” He moans again when teeth tease his pulse. “Mydei, I swear—”
Mydei’s low laugh sends shivers down Phainon’s frame. “You are louder than I imagined.”
Phainon’s cheeks turn crimson from his admission. “You imagined me to be loud?” He tries to sound teasing, to speak with a confidence he can barely summon, but his words are soft, vulnerable.
Mydei chuckles, tenderly fond. Phainon wants to melt in him.
“Demanding too,” says the Kremnoan. He rewards Phainon with another bite, close to his collarbone, ever-wary of the bruises on his neck. Places a hand on his waist. His hip. Phainon doesn’t bother to suppress his moan. Mydei laughs again. “Always knew you were a princess in bed, Deliverer.”
Phainon thrusts his hips, begging to be touched properly. He grabs Mydei’s hair and pulls, and Mydei groans, low and deep and fuck, it’s the hottest sound Phainon has ever heard. “Fuck, easy, love. You’ll get it soon enough.”
“I’ve waited long enough,” Phainon snarls. Mydei looks at him, blond hair falling in waves over his forehead, and by Kephale, Phainon needed this man in him yesterday. Phainon raises his legs and wraps them around the crown prince’s waist, tugging him forward impatiently. “Mydeimos, I swear, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’ll pin you down and ride you myself.”
Mydei blinks. Then his gaze darkens, his grip tightening on Phainon’s waist. He grins wickedly. “As you command, Deliverer.”
.:|:.
The Okheman sunset brings with it a sense of security that was absent in the cave, and bone-deep exhaustion settles on Phainon’s frame as he and Mydei step into the holy city’s gates. However, their work isn't done yet; Phainon's report to Aglaea is in order, so the two Chrysos Heirs trudge to the Bathhouse, eager to get the meeting over with so they can sleep. And bathe. And eat. Kephale knows Phainon has eaten enough oysters for a lifetime.
It isn't Aglaea who welcomes them in the Hero's Bath.
“Oh My Kephale!” Tribbie gasps, eyes shining with tears. “Snowy, you got mauled!”
Phainon’s cheeks turn red at Tribbie’s words, and at that moment, he sees his reflection in one of the Hero’s Bath mirrors: there are dark bags under his eyes, and purpling bruises and marks cover his throat. Furthermore, he walks with an obvious limp. Beside him, Mydei snorts and tries to cover his smile with his hand.
“Oh, poor Snowy!” Tribbie runs down the steps toward them to take Phainon’s hands in her own. “No wonder you took so long to return! The Titankin did a number on you! They’ve hurt you so much! They’re so mean!”
“Ah, yes,” says Phainon. “The Titankin. They did this to me.”
Mydei doesn’t even bother to disguise his laugh.
Phainon shoots him a glare as Tribbie fuses over his neck. “You know what, Tribbie? You’re right. The Titankin are mean. They didn’t even bother with holding back.”
“Maybe you were begging for them not to hold back,” Mydei retorts. For some reason, Tribbie doesn’t acknowledge that Mydei is wearing his robe properly for once. Bastard. Fucker got off easy, hiding Phainon’s marks beneath his garments. “Maybe Snowy here was asking the Titankin to hurt him.”
Tribbie gasps as Phainon shoots him a glare that is pure arsenic. “Oh, how terrible, De! Snowy, wanting to improve your combat abilities doesn’t mean you will seek punishment from your enemies!”
“Yeah, listen to our wise priest, Deliverer.” Mydei’s shit-eating grin grows as he saunters closer. “Seeking punishment is rather shameless for a Chrysos Heir, don’t you think?”
Before Phainon can respond that it’s even more shameless if a Chrysos Heir actually gives punishment if asked outside of combat, they hear the mechanical click of the Bath elevator stopping in place, and the leader of the Chrysos Heirs’ voice floats into the hall.
“Based on the evening’s commotion, I trust that the mission went well?” Aglaea steps into the Hero’s Bath, regal and composed as always. Beside her is Castorice, who takes one glance at Phainon and looks away, cheeks flushed.
Phainon turns away as well. But at least he knows Castorice has the grace not to bring it up; her tact is one of the reasons he thinks of her as a friend.
Meanwhile, Aglaea takes one look at Phainon’s state, and her usual impassive face turns smug. Phainon wants to leap out of the window. “I see you’ve sustained numerous…marks during your assignment, Lord Phainon.”
“Even a Chrysos Heir is susceptible to injury,” Phainon answers sagely, internally begging her not to tease him. Thankfully, she doesn’t. Aglaea takes one last look at him, then at Mydei (and is Phainon dreaming, or did Aglaea give the Kremnoan an approving nod?), then moves on.
“I have good news for everyone,” Aglaea announces. “After meeting with the Council of Elders last night, I managed to convince them to hand over the reins of our budget. However, we can discuss the specifics on another day.” She shoots Phainon a pointed look. “Head to the healers, and get some sleep, Lord Phainon. Your report can wait. If you would be so kind, please assist him, Prince Mydei.”
Then she glides away to the stairs, composed and unaffected as always, with Tribbie and Castorice at her heels. As they leave, Tribbie gives the male Chrysos Heirs one last worried glance. At Phainon’s small, assuring smile, she moves on, chatting amicably with Aglaea about the Chrysos Heirs’ budget plans going forward.
Once they are alone, Phainon turns to Mydei with a scowl. Mydei smiles at him, gentle and achingly tender, and Phainon’s shoulders droop with the realization he cannot resist his lover.
Mydei gently grabs the short plait of Phainon’s new braid and presses a reverent kiss to the tip. “The healers are quite far from the bathhouse. How about you stop by my quarters instead, and we can address your aches together, deliverer?”
Phainon snorts, hitting him lightly with his elbow. “Perhaps you’re right. You should take responsibility for my aches, seeing as you’ve caused them yourself.”
Mydei laughs. Phainon can’t help but laugh with him.
As they exit the hall, Mydei levels Phainon with a curious stare. “I’m sure Aglaea will ask for your report tomorrow. Will you be ready by then?”
Phainon shrugs. “Would it be alright if I mention you?”
“If they ask,” Mydei replies. “Otherwise, I’m happy to be your little secret.”
Phainon snorts. “Among other things.”
“Among other things,” Mydei agrees.
Phainon’s hand finds Mydei’s, akin to wings reaching for the sun. Mydei laces their fingers, his warmth seeping into Phainon’s own, and a sea of fondness floods Phainon’s chest.
(Fondness, for now. A man like Phainon can’t afford the luxury of love. Not yet. But he will, someday. He doesn’t know this yet, but Mydei will make sure of it.)
Mydei and Phainon share one last secret smile. Then they step forward and walk hand-in-hand as they leave the bathhouse.
FIN