into fields of gold

by keneke

Summary:

When Phainon is sixteen years old, he swears himself to Mydeimos' side.

(an iliad inspired phaidei au)

Notes:

this au was inspired after my recent finishing of emily wilson's translation of the iliad, along with my new phaidei hyperfixation haha

disclaimer: nothing in this fic is actually meant to be representative of ancient greece

Mydeimos awoke to a hand prodding at his shoulder.

Blearily, he opened his eyes, expression already shaping into a scowl. His vision focused past the harsh sunlight directly above, funneling closer to a figure standing over him. 

He had been lying in a field of golden wheat, the wind weaving through the crisp growth in greeting. Mydeimos glared at the boy now before him.

Blue eyes was the first thing he noticed, then the awkward and langley limbs. A boy his age then, growing into a more fitting body. His smile was peculiar, far too pleasant for any occasion.

“You’ll get burned like that,” the boy said.

It was unusual for anyone his age, past those his mother introduced to him, to speak to him. And even those bowed first.

After a moment of silence, the boy spoke again.

“It’s a bit careless to fall asleep under the summer sun.”

Mydeimos’ eye twitched ever so slightly.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

“I’m Phainon,” the boy said, reaching a hand out between them for Mydeimos to take.

Mydeimos stared at that hand, then back up at Phainon, before promptly sitting up and standing on his own. He turned heel, leaving the boy behind him as he began to walk away. 

So much for a moment of peace. 

Then, after a moment of walking, he heard the rustling of wheat. He looked over his shoulder and saw that boy still following him, that smile still plastered on his face.

“What’s your name?”

Mydeimos bristled, now sensing that this boy was purposefully trying to taunt him. His mother had told him to ignore these sorts of people, and so he did just so.

But the faster he walked, the more it seemed Phainon also quickened his pace. Mydeimos finally whipped around, fully prepared to put an end to this, but was taken aback when he found the boy right in front of him. Phainon put his hands on Mydeimos’ shoulders and playfully shoved him backwards, nearly knocking his balance.

Something akin to embarrassment or anger rose up through his chest at this boy somehow cutting the distance between them and getting the upper hand.

“You-!”

But Phainon just laughed, jumping back a few steps. “Your turn!”

Mydeimos balked. So this was some game?

“You’re not worth my time.”

Phainon narrowed his eyes in challenge, teasing almost. “What? Afraid you won’t be able to catch me?”

. . .

Mydeimos’ fists clenched by his sides, scoffing in disbelief. “Won’t be able to catch you?”

“I’d like to see you try!” Phainon taunted, and then he was off, leaving a trail of trampled wheat in his path as he ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

“Hah!” Mydeimos sarcastically laughed, any past notions of decorum his mother taught him gone by the mere bait of a challenge. He immediately took off running, chasing after Phainon.

He admitted that Phainon was faster than most of the children his age, and they had already reached the edge of a forest by the time Mydeimos had caught up. Dashing through lines of splattered trees, Mydeimos eventually grabbed onto the back of Phainon’s brown tunic and tugged him back.

Phainon didn’t seem upset by this though, grinning widely as Mydeimos started running away.

They twisted through the forest, jumping over roots, ducking under branches, sprinting about as fast as they could.

Panting, Mydeimos slowed to a stop. He looked around and didn’t see or hear anything. Blinking, he wondered if he had actually lost Phainon.

Then there was a crunch of leaves to the right, and before Mydeimos could react he was embraced by a pair of arms and thrown over to the ground. The breath was crushed out of him as they landed, and they began rolling together down a hill.

They ended up falling in some shallow creek, and somehow the game had changed over into the two of them wrestling in the water. Mydeimos’ chest and abdomen hurt in a way it hadn’t ever before, and he didn’t understand why until he laughed again. Their voices filled the space, laughter and shouting and taunting. 

Finally, Mydeimos managed to flip them over, grabbing Phainon’s wrists and pinning his arms over his head. He was straddled over Phainon’s stomach, squeezing his thighs in so the other couldn’t twist out again. 

Phainon was still smiling, despite trying to fight out of Mydeimos’ hold. 

“You yield?” Mydeimos panted with a grin, his wet hair dripping down below.

Phainon struggled one last time, before his body finally gave up against the smooth rock base of the creek. 

“I yield,” he said, the whites of his teeth showing as he gasped for breath. 

Mydeimos finally let go of him, still breathing heavily as he rolled over to lay next to Phainon in the water. He felt the cold rush of it, the creek’s gentle current pulling at his hair and soothing his muscles. He closed his eyes, feeling only the rise and fall of his chest, and the sensation of Phainon beside him.

“That was fun,” Phainon breathily said, and Mydeimos gave a short hum in response.

They laid there in the water for a while longer, until Phainon finally sat up, his backside soaked. He looked down at Mydeimos with a fond gaze.

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

Mydeimos snorted. So he still cared about that.

“It’s —”

“Mydeimos!”

The boys looked up to their right, to the top of the bank. There were two women standing there, both of which Mydeimos was acutely familiar with. One dressed in a simple white chiton, the other with a crimson cape above it and a golden wreath laurel atop her head.

The woman on the left began shuffling down the dirty hillside, scuffing up her sandals in the process of it. Splashing into the water, she helped pull Mydeimos back onto his feet, already worriedly checking him over for any injuries. He endured the process with a bored look in his eyes. He gave a sidelong glance to Phainon, who looked rather confused but still bearing a small smile.

“What were you thinking?” she chastised him, pinching at his arm. “Your mother and I have been looking for you all morning! You think it’s funny now to run off on your own?”

Mydeimos drew his arm back with a moody expression. “I think I can handle myself just fine without you stalking my shadow.”

He was still looking at Phainon instead of the maid. 

“Mydeimos.”

A stern, yet warm voice. He finally looked up the bank at his mother.

She held her arms behind her. “Come now. Your swordmaster has been left waiting, and I have much left to do today.”

Mydeimos gave one last glance to Phainon before nodding his head. There was water dripping from his shorter chiton as he walked out of the creek, and he shook his head twice to get his bangs out of his eyes. It was a familiar juxtaposition, the feeling of the hot sun against his cooled skin. He took his mother’s extended hand to stand beside her.

The maid came to join beside him, tugging once at the back of his hair as retribution.

“What’s your name, child?” Gorgo asked, giving Phainon a gentle look.

“Phainon, Your Majesty,” Phainon said, bowing his head down despite still being sprawled out in the creek.

Mydeimos looked away to the side. Whatever illusion from before was broken now. He was the crown prince now, and Phainon was just Phainon.

They left soon after going through the pleasantries, though Gorgo seemed to have the ability to connect with just about any of her subjects. 

Mydeimos turned his head to look over his shoulder one last time.

Phainon waved to him, mouthing goodbye.

Mydeimos silently lifted a hand as he walked away, watching as Phainon disappeared behind the hill.

 

~

 

Mydeimos hadn’t seen Phainon since the week before. Granted, it wasn’t as if he were looking for him. He had spent the last few days just as he did most of his days since coming to this island city. Learning swordplay, fighting with fists, strategy, everything else his mother and her trusted captains knew. 

It was afternoon now, Mydeimos seated at the edge of one of the fountains in the inner courtyard of the palace. He was barefoot, sitting with crossed legs as he picked at the platter of food brought out for them. Gorgo was sitting nearby, a foot dipped into the cool pool of water. Mydeimos eyed the mosaic base of the fountain, the small colored tiles smooth and glossy underneath the reflecting light of the water. It was a depiction of a woman fighting a lion. His mother at his age.

It was a quiet day, though Mydeimos could still hear the typical bird song and sounds of the bustling city outside of the palace. Perhaps if he closed his eyes and listened hard enough, he would be able to hear the crashing of waves from the coastline.

This island had not always been his home. For many of the citizens here, it wasn’t home either. They had been living here for the last seven years, settling into life in a new city and trying to create roots. Mydeimos knew, however, that for many, the return home meant more than creating a new life here.

Home was the city of Castrum Kremnos. A shining and vast city surrounding a citadel and palace much larger than this one. For hundreds of years it had thrived alongside its people. Mydeimos still remembered running down those streets as a child, the dances at night festivals, the bustling markets and visitors from afar bringing their cultures.

He still remembered the day Castrum Kremnos was drowned in blood.

Nikador hailed from a neighboring city-state, a war-monger who sought to conquer and rule. Back then, he had only been a crown prince himself. A young man entering his second decade, and yet his years had already been marked in massacre. It was likely, no, certain, that he had already intended to acquire Castrum Kremnos in his possession as well. But perhaps that conquest was hastened by a certain prophecy. 

Mydeimos had only heard rumors of it, everyone had only heard rumors of it. After all, Nikador had allegedly labeled any word of it blasphemy punishable by death now that he was a king.

But regardless of this crime, word had spread. That an oracle had prophesied the demise of Nikador. And by no less than the Son of Gorgo, the living Queen of Castrum Kremnos. 

He remembered the fires, the blazing arrows and the marching of armies at the depths of night. Gorgo had held his hand as they ran together. They had been ambushed just as they reached the city gates. It was the first and only time Mydeimos had taken a life. He had taken a broken sword from the ground and ran it through a soldier who had meant to cut into his mother. Blood had splattered across his face, the taste of it horrid.

The city had been lost, but Gorgo had led the survivors to a safe haven, an island city belonging to her line of ancestry. They had been hiding here ever since, far away from Nikador’s eyes.

Life had been better since then, though the wounds had never been forgotten. They had rebuilt new lives here under his mother’s leadership and guidance. 

But Mydeimos knew what was whispered. That one day they might return home to their kingdom and overthrow the accursed. That justice and retribution would be found, and by the hand of the Son of Gorgo. He knew what the peoples’ eyes held when they looked at him.

Kept secret except for a select few was that Mydeimos had been given a prophecy as well, his fate set out already.

His mother did not speak of this prophecy much, but Mydeimos felt its presence constantly. There was a reason she trained him day in and day out. There was a reason she taught him strategy, how to rule, how to lead a battle. 

It was all for one moment. 

Mydeimos fiddled with the figs on his plate, pushing them around. 

Gorgo gave him a knowing look. “You were distracted this morning. I’ve never seen you miss your mark like you did today.”

Mydeimos frowned, keeping his eyes low. “It won’t happen again.”

Gorgo hummed. “Distraction in battle has the potential to be the greatest killer. The mind must be focused.”

Embarrassment, and a slight sense of guilt, creeped up on Mydeimos. He knew how much his mother cared. How everyone seemed to care that he grew into something greater than he was.

“I’ll do better,” he said, this time more sincerely.

He could feel her gaze still on him.

“However, sometimes the best way to undo a distraction is to indulge it. Sometimes, that is.”

Mydeimos finally looked up at her.

“You wish to go see your friend?” Gorgo asked.

Mydeimos paused, then looked off to the side, silent. He should have known she would notice.

Gorgo smiled, leaning over to rustle his hair with her fingers. He shook his head about when she was done, attempting to return his hair back to its normal lay.

“Go on then. Be back before dinner.”

Mydeimos nodded, quicker than usual, and Gorgo laughed softly at his reaction.

He didn’t know where Phainon lived, though. He asked a few of the maids, but found they knew no boy of the sorts. And so, with no other options, he went back to that field where they first met. 

Today, there were just over two dozen people on the field. Mydeimos frowned, looking out across the land with crossed arms. Everyone here was an adult, hunched over with their sickles as they harvested the wheat. He jumped from the rock he had been standing on, striding over to an older man.

There was the initial forced interaction, the bow and the addressing of Mydeimos as crown prince. Finally, Mydeimos had been able to ask his question, and this time the name was recognized.

“Your Highness wishes to see . . . Phainon?” the old man asked inquisitively. 

“Does he live here?” Mydeimos asked.

The old man rubbed the back of his neck, squinting his eyes. “Well, I suppose you could say that. He stays with the livestock out in the stable. Boy’s parents aren’t around anymore, so he works with the animals for a place to sleep and dinner.”

It would explain why Mydeimos had never seen him around the main city. And perhaps explain the overly scrawny limbs. 

“Where’s he right now?”

Mydeimos was pointed in the direction of the stable, a decently sized wooden shack with enough space for a dozen or so animals. The front gate was already open, and Mydeimos walked inside without calling out first. 

He stopped when he saw a horse with its head out of its pen, rubbing a hand over its nose before moving on. There was someone shuffling in the back of the stable, moving around some buckets and filling them with feed. Mydeimos recognized the lighter head of hair.

The horse snorting beside him gave him away. Phainon turned around, and Mydeimos watched as his expression shifted. Eyes brightening some, a few blinks.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, standing up and brushing some of the pieces of hay off his knees.

Mydeimos didn’t exactly know what to say, so he just looked back at the horse. She had a roan coat and a star shaped mark across her forehead. He gave her another rub across the nose.

“What’s her name?” he asked.

“Cora.”

She nuzzled against Mydeimos’ head, nibbling some at his hair until he stepped back.

Phainon came to stand by his side, and it was then that Mydeimos noticed the dirt smudged against Phainon’s skin.

They didn’t say anything for a moment. 

Then, “If you help me finish in here, I can show you my favorite spot by the cliffs.”

Mydeimos subdued a smile and nodded.

It was likely a curious sight, to see the crown prince working alongside a commoner inside a stable. More than once did Mydeimos catch a head peeking into the stable to watch them. It didn’t take too much longer with the both of them working — feeding the rest of the animals, clearing their pens, and washing their water buckets. By the end of it all the sun was still high in the sky, the both of them walking out of the stable and smelling distinctly of animal fur.

“Come on, it’s this way!” Phainon said, taking off in a jog, and Mydeimos followed alongside him.

Along the way, Phainon was explaining to him how he found the place — apparently last summer when he was chasing after one of the donkeys that got loose. He talked fast, gleefully even. Not once did he use a royal address for Mydeimos.

The spot Phainon wanted to show him was by one of the smaller cliffs by a lagoon. The water there was a pale blue with white rocky shores. There was a sizable tree by the edge of the cliffside, and there tied against one of its larger branches was a rope.

Mydeimos watched as Phainon tested the rope, pulling it taut a few times. Then the boy walked back a few steps, eyes aglow, and sprinted forward. He lifted his legs up, flying up off the cliffside before letting go with a holler, his voice echoing around as he fell down into the water with a tall splash.

Mydeimos jogged over to the side, looking down at the water with wide eyes. He watched as bubbles surfaced up, ripples through the water. 

“Phai—!“

The water surface cut open, Phainon popping out with a gasp for breath. He swung his arms around his side, grinning up at Mydeimos.

Mydeimos stared down at him, something relaxing now that he knew the other was safe. Phainon misread his expression.

“Don’t think you can do it?”

It’s all it took for Mydeimos to follow him into the water just the same way, his legs kicking out as he fell through the sky. 

The crash into the water was a liminal moment, Phainon’s laughter muffled and the heat of the day disappearing. In the few seconds he was underwater, Mydeimos opened his eyes and looked up.

Sunlight broke through the pool’s surface, dancing through the water in broken reflections. He could see Phainon above him, and Mydeimos began to swim up.

He took a deep breath as he surfaced, blinking his eyes hard to get the water out. Phainon was beside him, face wet and hair flattened on either side of his face. Rosy cheeks, teeth white as ever.

They jumped again and again, one time holding on to the rope and swinging off together. Mydeimos was tired by the time they laid on the rocky shore to rest, muscles sore and exhausted in a way that only felt good. 

There had never been anyone for him to play with. The few boys his mother had brought over when he was younger were too forced, somehow always repeating the words their parents had likely forced into their memory the prior night. Every interaction was a constant reminder that he was crown prince.

He didn’t mind that fact. He knew who he was. But it wasn’t everything. 

Still, it made him curious why Phainon hadn’t brought it up.

“You haven’t asked about it,” he said, eyes closed. The sun still shone through his eyelids, filling his vision with red.

“About you still smelling like horse?”

Mydeimos smacked a fist against Phainon’s stomach, making the other boy cough out. He opened one eye to look at him.

“About me.”

Phainon was rubbing the place he got hit with a bullied expression. Then he leaned up a little, resting on his forearms so he could look down at Mydeimos better.

“What’s there to ask? I found out when your mother came to fetch you.”

So you didn’t know when you first found me.

“Do you care?” Mydeimos asked. Phainon gave him a funny look, like he thought Mydeimos was joking.

“Do you care?”

Mydeimos stretched out some on the rocks, Phainon’s head blocking the bright rays of the sun. Like this, it was almost as if he were adorning a halo. 

“No. I guess not.”

Phainon smiled, reaching over to pluck a stray leaf that had gotten stuck to Mydeimos’ shoulder. He laid it down gently to the side. “Can I ask you something now?”

Mydeimos nodded his head up once.

“Why were you out in the field that day?”

It wasn’t as if that day were truly that special. But it had been the anniversary of sorts from when Mydeimos had first approached the city’s oracle. It had been on his mind that day, after dreaming of those words over and over again. 

He had left before anyone could see him, before the breaking of dawn, before any of the maids or teachers could find him. He ran as fast as he could, until he didn’t know where he was. And there he had laid down, closing his eyes and pretending he was far away. Like this was all a dream.

He had managed to pretend it was until Phainon had woken him.

“I had a lot on my mind,” is what he opted to say instead. 

Phainon gave him an oddly knowing smile. “Sure.”

Mydeimos blinked slowly. “And why are you working on the farm? Your parents?”

He asked it despite knowing the answer. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to hear it from Phainon himself. 

“Why should I give you an answer when you didn’t?”

Mydeimos’ brows scrunched up. “I gave you an answer.”

“‘I had a lot on my mind’ doesn’t count as an answer,” Phainon snorted, tugging at the skirt of Mydeimos’ chiton. 

Mydeimos huffed, putting an arm down so he could sit up as well. He gave Phainon a sideways glance. His mother would advise him to be careful who he sought counsel from. He found he didn’t really care about that right now.

“You know about Nikador’s prophecy, right?”

Even someone like Phainon, who didn’t seem that caught up in city gossip, should know about it.

“My mother mentioned it once, back in the day.”

Phainon sat up fully beside him. “Something about the Son of Gorgo being the one to kill him.”

Mydeimos looked out at the water again. It was an uneasy feeling, one he liked to pretend didn’t exist.

“A year ago I saw the oracle. I got my own prophecy.”

He couldn’t see Phainon’s expression, but could hear him shifting slightly. The boy was waiting for him to continue before speaking.

“It . . . It wasn’t anything different,” he said flatly. “It was the exact same. I’ll be the one to kill him.”

The oracle had laughed after she had told him.

You see, fate has its way of balancing the scales.

“I guess I was just thinking about it.”

It was a strange shift of mood, given what this started out as. Two boys, perhaps not yet friends, lying beside each other after an hour of play.

Phainon tucked his head over his knees, looking up at Mydeimos.

“And you’re afraid?”

His words weren’t meant to be mocking, nor were they in humor. He meant it just as that, as if he had known from the first day they had met that Mydeimos had been afraid. It took Mydeimos off guard. 

“I . . .” 

Mydeimos licked the back of his teeth. A habit he had picked up.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s a good thing.”

“It is a good thing. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy. It doesn’t mean you can’t be afraid of it.”

Mydeimos finally turned to look at Phainon. His eyes were as blue as the water ahead of them.

“Do you think prophecies have to be true?” Mydeimos asked after a moment. 

Phainon took a breath. 

“Yes. I do.”

It was the answer Mydeimos had expected. All prophecies came to fruition, no matter their words.

“But what matters is the journey we take to that end,” Phainon said. “You may be afraid of your prophecy today, Mydeimos. But I assure you. One day you won’t be. You’ll face it with your head held high.”

How can you say that with such conviction?

Mydeimos wiped some of the water off his face with the back of his hand. “Maybe.”

Phainon gave a quick smile, grabbing a nearby rock and tossing it into the lagoon. “Alright, I owe you an answer now.”

Thankful that the topic of conversation had moved away from himself, Mydeimos turned to pay attention. 

He spoke like he was talking about the weather, and Mydeimos began to wonder if Phainon was just as secretive as himself, though perhaps in a different way.

“My folks died several years back. My mother was in the army when Nikador invaded Castrum Kremnos, I heard she died near the end when we were evacuating. Father and I lived here together for another two years before he died. He got sick one day and just didn’t get better.”

Phainon threw another rock, and this time it skipped across the water. “Loukas, the owner of the farm, found me sleeping in the stables with the horses. I somehow convinced him to let me stay, though I have to work to keep my spot.”

He shrugged. “It’s not so bad. The old man treats me well, and so does the rest of the workers who come around. We’re not family, but we get along.” 

Mydeimos tipped his head to the side. “Do you miss them?”

Phainon glanced at him, smiling. “Yeah.”

Death was a strange thing.

He didn’t know what prompted him to say it, and it was as if he really hadn’t thought of it before the words slipped out.

“You know, you could come live with me instead.”

Phainon raised his brow in question.

“We have plenty of rooms.”

The other boy laughed. “You invite everyone you meet to come live with you?”

Mydeimos didn’t think it would bode so well to admit that he had probably spoken more willing words to Phainon than anyone else his age.

He scowled instead. “What? You’d rather live in the stables?”

Phainon flicked him on his forehead. “Plenty of people live in worse. I consider myself quite lucky.”

Mydeimos didn’t really understand, but Phainon seemed rather stubborn about it.

“I like being independent,” Phainon explained in the silence Mydeimos had left. “It feels good to be living off my own work.”

“You could still work there if you wanted,” Mydeimos grumbled. “You just wouldn’t have to sleep on the ground anymore.”

Again, he couldn’t understand why he was persisting.

Phainon bit the inside of his cheek as if he were mulling it over. Then, he spoke.

“You know, you’re nicer than I thought.”

Mydeimos glared daggers at him, to no avail.

“I have to spend the harvesting season here. It’s easier for me to wake up and already be at work,” Phainon explained casually. “After that, I’ll consider your offer. That is, as long as you aren’t tired of me by then.”

Somehow, it felt like another challenge. Mydeimos nodded in agreement. 

The two of them headed back to the farm not so long after that. They walked this time, limbs sore from swimming and jumping into the water.

Halfway back, Phainon stopped to pluck a vibrant yellow wildflower from the ground. He rotated it about between his thumb and index finger before coming and tucking it behind Mydeimos’ ear.

Mydeimos scoffed, pulling it out and throwing it back down as Phainon laughed beside him.

 

~

 

Just before the end of the harvest season, Mydeimos had brought Phainon to the baths with him. Phainon had initially rejected the offer, given how much work there was to be done, but he found that Loukas had nervously insisted he take the day off. He had a creeping feeling that Mydeimos had done some sort of bribery, or threatening, to get his way.

Regardless, he had finally accepted, following along as Mydeimos showed him the way through town. He hadn’t been before, which Mydeimos seemed to inwardly enjoy. They washed themselves ahead in a cold bath, which Phainon was used to, but he was fully unprepared for the almost suffocating heat of the thermal bath room. Steam was rising from the murky waters, a distinct lavender scent curling around their bodies. 

Mydeimos had picked one of the more private baths in the city, and there weren’t too many others there. With the steam, Phainon could only make out the vague shape of upper bodies in the water. 

He looked down at his bare feet as they walked through the room, padding across colored mosaics of sea creatures and ships. It was a beautiful sight, and Phainon was almost taken aback by how casually Mydeimos walked over them without looking down.

‘Though I suppose he must be used to this,’ Phainon thought.

He walked a little faster to catch up to Mydeimos’ side.

They picked one of the pools in the back of the room where they’d be alone. The milky water was littered with flower petals, steam hazy as it floated upwards.

Experimentally, Phainon leaned down to dip his hand into the pool.

He immediately tore his hand back with a jump, not expecting the water to be so hot. Mydeimos laughed at him, walking straight into the scorching water without hesitation. His towel was thrown unceremoniously to the side of the pool, without any shame. 

Mydeimos gave a goading smile, dipping down into the water until it came up to his chest.

“I didn’t know you couldn’t handle the heat,” he mocked.

Phainon’s eyes shined, and he dipped his hand back into the water. His skin stung, likely turning a little pink, but he figured it was worth it.

He noticed how the ends of Mydeimos’ hair dipped into the water, and finally he began stepping inside. His face must have been scrunched up at the way Mydeimos continued to grin, and he let out a hiss as he finally lowered his torso into the water. It took several moments before he could relax into the water, finally feeling the sensation of tense muscles releasing. It was surprising how pleasant it felt on his sore feet and back. He wondered if Mydeimos had brought him here knowing that.

They swam, or rather waded through the water for some time, speaking in low voices so as to not disturb the others. 

Mydeimos was, as expected, interesting to talk to. To Phainon, he was someone who had lived a thousand lives, despite them being the same age. And yet Mydeimos asked him the same amount of questions, seemingly interested in Phainon’s opinions on various topics, from whatever situation at home was troubling Mydeimos to local politics, even about the ending of some book which Mydeimos had summarized the entirety of to him.

“You know,” Phainon eventually said. “With your hair so long, you could braid it. Try it.”

He wasn’t entirely sure what prompted such a thought, but his eyes had been lingering at Mydeimos’ hair for some time now. He had some bangs and pieces cropped to frame his face, but otherwise his hair reached his shoulders in the front.

Mydeimos snorted. “Why would I know how to do that?”

Phainon exhaled in exasperation, swimming a little closer to Mydeimos. “It’s not hard.”

It’s not like he had his own hair to demonstrate, so he pulled the three locks from Mydeimos’ hair. He gave a verbal description, though he was sure Mydeimos wouldn’t actually remember. 

“Like that,” he finished, holding the small braid together with his fingers. It was just by Mydeimos’ ear, but it looked just as Phainon had imagined. “Looks good.”

Mydeimos gave a subtle frown, though not one that seemed upset. With the ends of his hair already being wet, the braid stuck together even when Phainon let go.

He watched as Mydeimos gently felt at it with his fingers, tracing over the lines. 

“You’re odd,” Mydeimos finally said.

Phainon thought the same of Mydeimos as he watched him, the contrasting notes of his boyishness and regality, the careful attention to his dress and then the bruises and scrapes that Phainon knew littered his legs. Even moreso, the stern and sometimes moody expression on a face that, depending on the lighting, Phainon could find rather fair. 

He had noticed it the first time they had laid side by side on that rocky shore by the lagoon. The sun had been shining just so, brightening Mydeimos’ skin and emphasizing the well-made lines of his nose and jaw. Phainon supposed that it just had to be the luck of Mydeimos being a prince, and then son of Gorgo no doubt.

Mydeimos kicked him in the water, though it was more like a nudge with the resistance. It knocked Phainon out of his momentary daze, and he huffed.

“Says you.”

Mydeimos’ gaze shifted lower, somehow landing just beneath Phainon’s collarbone. His attention was a sharp thing, and he poked at the thumb-sized canyon of thickened skin there with two fingers.

“Where’d you get this scar from?”

Phainon looked down instinctively. It wasn’t a big scar, and for the most part the discoloration had faded over time.

“Oh,” Phainon said. “That.”

It’s not like he remembered it that well, given the blur of that night. “It was the day we fled from the city.”

He smoothed his hand over the area, wondering if a scar could hold memories. But he found this one didn’t. “I don’t remember it happening. Everything happened so fast. And even afterwards . . . I didn’t think of it so much.”

He had begged his father to turn back when they had gotten past the city gates, pounding on his shoulders to let him go. He had no care for the blood spilling down his own chest, nor did he feel its pain once he heard of his mother’s fate. It was drowned out, just like many things in those days. And once his father died, he truly had been alone. There had been no one there to wipe his tears then, nor clean his hands of the stench of illness and death.

Phainon closed his mouth, strangely finding himself smiling, even if he didn’t feel it one bit. He wondered how Mydeimos felt. After all, it was meant to be his city. His people. 

And one day it would be again.

Yes, Mydeimos was odd.

Phainon didn’t understand prophecy, but he supposed he did believe in it.

“What about you?” he asked, no longer wanting to talk about his own losses and scars. 

Mydeimos stood some in the water, turning around and exposing his back. He looked over his shoulder, motioning down.

“The center of my back. Do you see it?”

Phainon came closer, and then saw it. 

A similar-sized scar to his own, cut through the center of Mydeimos’ back. 

Without thinking, Phainon placed his palm over the scar, feeling the warmth of Mydeimos’ skin and the stretching of muscle as the other breathed. 

“It was a hard fight out of the city,” Mydeimos said.

They were the same age, Phainon fully realized. And yet, on that very same day, when they were both mere children, Nikador’s forces had come to kill Mydeimos. The rest of them were meaningless casualties. Mydeimos was the one they had come for. And they had nearly succeeded. 

“I’ve always believed that scars . . . don’t ever truly heal,” Mydeimos continued to say, and Phainon wondered if the boy was speaking to himself as well. As if his inner thoughts were spilling out from his skull into these very waters.

“That we are forever weakened there.”

Phainon still hadn’t moved his hand, and Mydeimos was looking ahead now.

“I wonder if that is a prophecy in of itself. That I may be pierced through again.”

Phainon paused, breath stilling. His hand recoiled, brows furrowing.

“Why would you think such things?” he slowly asked. It wasn’t accusatory, rather, confused.

Mydeimos said nothing for a moment, still turned in a way so Phainon couldn’t see his expression. Then, he finally lowered back into the water, shifting so they were facing each other.

There was no worry there, no anxiety. 

“Am I not a warrior?” Mydeimos plainly asked. “A warrior must meet his end.”

“You are Mydeimos before you are a warrior.”

It seemed to take Mydeimos by surprise. The blink, and slow widening of the eyes.

“You carry a heavy burden on your shoulders,” Phainon said. “Do not prophesize a fate which has not yet been written.” 

Mydeimos stared at him, then down at the water. 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he said quietly after some time.

Knowing he ought to pull Mydeimos from this somber mood, he nudged the boy’s side.

“Besides, I’ll watch your back.”

Nothing, and then Mydeimos finally scoffed.

“Then I’m certain to meet my end.”

Phainon grinned. “Maybe I should let you if that’s the case.”

Mydeimos narrowed his eyes, but Phainon could see the amusement growing there.

“And you wouldn’t be such a waste of talent if you’d do more than feed cattle every day.”

“Last I remember I was a better swimmer than you were.”

“Last I remember you couldn’t last but a few seconds against me in an arm wrestle.”

Their banter continued on to just about every competition they had managed to have until that point, even getting into hypotheticals.

“What, you really don’t think I could beat you one day? Not even once?” Phainon asked with a smile.

Mydeimos then lifted Phainon’s arm out of the water, eyes trailing from his fingertips up to his shoulder without a word. The steam from the water felt warmer, and Phainon blinked, face flushing some from the unexpected contact.

Phainon waited as Mydeimos continued to inspect his arm, then his other arm, then his shoulders. 

“You’re scrawny, but you have the makings for a warrior,” he said, matter of factly. “Eat more and maybe you could try to compete with me on a battlefield.”

Phainon stared blankly at Mydeimos, then flicked up his hand to splash water on the other boy’s face. 

It devolved quickly into the two of them grabbing each other wherever they could, wrestling to dunk the other one underwater. Both of them ended up fully submerged at some point before a group on the other side of the room shouted over for them to shut up. Mydeimos didn’t pull his royalty card, instead pushing Phainon back as if calling a temporary truce.

Face wet now, Phainon leaned his back on the stone wall, flinching once from the heat. Mydeimos came to sit by his side. 

“Just come to my place to eat,” he said, continuing the conversation as if there hadn’t been any interruption. Phainon gave him a glance.

“We live miles apart.”

“Then come live with me.”

Phainon laughed, tilting his head back to lean on the ledge. This again. “Maybe.”

Again and again, Mydeimos had wanted him as a companion, not just a friend. Someone to live by his side, attend lessons of arts and literature, drills and training together.

Mydeimos was polite to all, though perhaps more on the quiet side. But he wasn’t that way with Phainon.

Phainon wasn’t opposed to the idea. He had thought of it a lot. Not because of the comforts that Mydeimos consistently brought up, but rather the company. 

I don’t know why fate chose us to meet that day. Why I saw you alone, in an endless field of gold.  Why was I blessed by you?

But these were thoughts best to keep close to his heart. Mydeimos enjoyed his company, but . . . Phainon had experienced enough loss to consider this offer with caution. 

If I let you in, more than I already have, what will I do if you choose to leave me?

“You’re uselessly stubborn,” Mydeimos muttered, and Phainon, eyes still closed, reached up to tug once at Mydeimos’ longer hair.

“You’re uselessly persistent.”

Mydeimos huffed once. 

“Then at least take meals home when you come to visit me. And come to more of my lessons. My master won’t mind.”

I think he would, but it’s not like he can deny the crown prince.

Phainon just moved his head to the side so he could see Mydeimos, only to find the boy already looking at him. 

“Why do you care so much?” he asked, honestly.

He supposed he meant it in every possible way. It had never made sense to him, fully anyways. Why Mydeimos continued to seek him out as much as he did. Mydeimos had been his first friend, and while Phainon perhaps wasn’t the best point of knowledge on friendship, there was something about their bond that felt as if it pushed on the boundaries of normalcy.

Mydeimos eyed him carefully, water rippling as he drew his knee up to his chest. Phainon got the impression of a wild animal watching him, calculating. It was a strange shift in mood.

Then, Mydeimos closed his eyes, leaning back on the ledge himself like Phainon had been before.

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

Oddly, Phainon relaxed some in the water at that response. He matched Mydeimos’ position and closed his eyes as well.

The minutes became sticky with the heat, senses dulled.

“Wanna bet who can stay in here for longer?”

 

~

 

Despite Mydeimos’ complaints and borderline threats at times, Phainon still hadn’t agreed to leave the farm after the harvest season. It frustrated him to no end, like a prickle behind his eyes every morning when he was given his lessons and Phainon wasn’t there.

But at the very least they saw each other more often as the days went on, and Phainon occasionally tagged along to drills and training when coerced. It had made an odd fire spark under his skin when he saw Phainon wield a sword for the first time, though he still needed to be taught a great deal.

Mydeimos had been walking back with Phainon to the farm when they happened upon a small cave entrance down a hillside. It was in their curious nature to at least look inside to see how far it went, and whether it was worth coming back another day to explore.

The mouth of the cave, hidden partly by some vines, was about as tall as they were. The ground had become a ravine of stones, each one rather loose and unbalanced.

Together, they stood at the cave’s entrance and looked down. 

It was like a landslide, a sharp, steep drop of rocks and boulders and dried mud.

Perhaps not so worth coming back another day.

A sudden bolt ran up Mydeimos’ spine, senses on high alert. He had just begun to reach out to grab Phainon’s wrist when there was a thunderous cracking of stone, the rocks below Phainon collapsing down into the darkness. Mydeimos grabbed onto thin air, his heart catching in his throat as Phainon fell into the pitch black chasm with a forced out sound of surprise. 

All he could see were shattered stones and boulders, dirt and darkness. He could barely hear a thing over the pounding in his chest.

“Phainon!”

His shouting echoed through the chasm, and his stomach clenched in nauseous fear. Recklessly, without any care of the danger he might be putting himself into, Mydeimos began crawling down into the cave. His feet were already catching on the loose and uneven boulders, blinking hard from the suffocating cloud of dust. “Phainon–”

There was coughing, like Phainon was choking on something, and then a squeezed out sound of pain. Mydeimos’ eyes widened, and he climbed his way down based on the sound of Phainon’s wheezing.

Through the little light from the entrance of the cave, Mydeimos could see where Phainon had ended up. Dust coated his pale head, along with the matting of blood by his temple. His leg was pinned underneath a boulder, and Mydeimos witnessed how Phainon’s body was already beginning to shake from the shock.

Mydeimos slid down the last few rocks to make it to Phainon’s side, his own limbs now scraped up. In the low light, Mydeimos held Phainon’s head in his hands, his breathing quick and punched out. 

“Stay still,” he told Phainon, trying as carefully as he could to examine how badly Phainon’s head was bleeding. His thumb traced over a knuckle-sized gash, and Phainon winced. It wasn’t the worst it could have been, but it wasn’t good.

Mydeimos grabbed a hold of his own chiton, ripping off a strip of it and wrapping it around Phainon’s head, trying his best to slow the bleeding for now. The bigger issue was the leg.

Phainon’s right shin was trapped underneath the boulder, and Mydeimos could already see the blood seeping out on the exposed skin. He was breathing harder than Phainon was now, who was shallowly gasping for breath. Unconsciously, he grabbed onto Phainon’s hand.

Mydeimos was about to speak when there was another rockslide, the entire chasm rumbling as it happened. Thankfully, it was just to the left of them, but it was enough to fill the entire space with another cloud of dust that they both coughed on.

But the entrance was smaller now, one half of its mouth collapsed in. Mydeimos looked back down to Phainon, the light even smaller now.

“I need to move it off your leg,” he said, using his free hand to rub Phainon’s chest in assurance. “It’s going to hurt, but you can’t struggle.”

“Just go,” Phainon managed to hoarsely say. “It’s not safe for you. Just . . . Just tell Loukas and the others at the farm. Maybe they can pull me out with a rope from the entrance.”

Mydeimos’ expression twisted into almost angry disbelief. He could hear Phainon’s shallow breathing, the control there to hide his pain.

“What are you saying?”

Phainon looked exhausted, and almost defeated. It was a strange and unfamiliar sight, and Mydeimos couldn’t understand it.

“It’s not safe. There could be another rockslide if you move it. If anyone moves it.”

“I don’t care. You won’t be able to get out unless your leg is free. There’s no pulling you out any other way. And you’re bleeding. There isn’t enough time to get help.”

Phainon grimaced, his head falling to the side. “The entrance could close. You’d be trapped in here.”

“So what?”

Phainon weakly squeezed his hand. “Mydeimos, it’s not worth it. I’m not—”

“I’m not leaving you,” Mydeimos said in a hard, steady voice. “So shut up.”

Phainon panted, closing his eyes. Mydeimos ripped off another part of his robe, bunching it up and placing it by Phainon’s mouth. “Bite down on this.”

When Phainon finally relented, Mydeimos carefully brought himself closer to his leg. He looked down the cave, trying to figure out the best way to get the boulder off without disturbing the rest of the shaky footing.

“When I pick this up, I need you to move your leg in,” Mydeimos said, glancing back down to Phainon’s face. It was going to be difficult. “Do you think you can do that?”

Phainon gave him a weak nod, but Mydeimos trusted him to do this if both their lives were on the line.

Taking a deep breath, Mydeimos found his stance and wrapped his arms around and underneath the boulder. He grunted as he began to lift it up, the breath squeezed out of him. Muscles straining, knees beginning to shift out of balance. 

But it was moving, and Phainon let out a muffled cry. Mydeimos used all his strength to lift it up, and he heard the moment Phainon was able to shift his body to the side. He let it fall back down, the rocks around them already beginning to slide again. 

Mydeimos immediately put his body over Phainon’s to protect him, straddled and hovered over him as rocks began to fall again.

It had nearly halfway buried them, and Mydeimos began to carefully move them to the side once the rockslide seemed to stop. Blinking hard, he looked back up towards the mouth of the cave. There was still a small, tight opening left.

He knelt closer to the ground.

“Wrap your arms over my shoulders,” Mydeimos said. “Hold on tight.”

It was a difficult affair to get Phainon onto his back, and he said nothing of the tears he felt fall onto his bare shoulder when he tucked his hand underneath Phainon’s bad knee to hold him up. 

“It’s okay,” Mydeimos said, and he began to carry them both up.

More than once he nearly lost his footing on the dangerous terrain, but eventually, he got them to the mouth of the cave. It took one final push, and they escaped out into the open air.

Mydeimos coughed, feeling a coating of dust across the lining of his throat. He didn’t waste his time reminiscing, however, and began to carry Phainon back to the city.

It didn’t take long before a carriage on the road flagged them down — seeing the crown prince carrying his bloody friend was likely a sight.

They brought Phainon to the palace’s physician, who disinfected the open wounds and stitched them closed. Mydeimos and Gorgo had stood by the entire time, Mydeimos holding on to his hand despite how his own knuckles were going white from Phainon’s grip. They casted his leg straight with wax, laying him down in a bed to rest for the next week.

The physician’s room was in one of the darker parts of the palace, with only one window for natural light. 

Mydeimos was kneeling by the bed’s side, resting on the carpeted floors. He was leaning on the bed near Phainon’s head, watching him curiously.

The boy was still a bit pale, with half his head wrapped in bandages. They had brought dinner down for him some time ago, but Phainon hadn’t wanted to eat much.

“Does it hurt?”

Phainon gave a drained laugh. “Not that badly.”

Mydeimos narrowed his eyes some. Despite Phainon’s claims of him being the stubborn brute, it was often Phainon who kept a mask up like this.

“Were you scared?”

Phainon’s eyes glanced over to him, his smile pausing.

“Were you?”

The carpet felt coarse on his knees suddenly. It was an odd atmosphere. Quiet, too quiet.

“When you started saying strange things.”

“Strange things?”

“Don’t talk like that again,” Mydeimos said in a low voice. “Don’t act like it’d be easy for me to leave you.”

And in that moment, he thought nothing of that oracle, only of his feelings in the present.

“. . . Okay. I promise.”

“Good.”

Phainon gave a small smile. “We can avoid caves for now. At least a year.”

Mydeimos snorted, but was satisfied that the air between them wasn’t so tense anymore.

“Next time you can drag me out.”

“Impossible,” Phainon teased. “You’re too heavy.”

Mydeimos flicked his arm, a little regretful that he couldn’t jump on Phainon given his bad leg.

Phainon exhaled, dropping his head so he could face Mydeimos.

“I’m happy I met you,” he said softly, voice a bit tired. 

Mydeimos watched him carefully, his head still rested over his crossed arms.

Then, eventually:

“Me too.”

 

~

 

It took three more years for Mydeimos to convince Phainon to live in the palace with him. And even then, he had refused to sleep in Mydeimos’ quarters, even refused the finer rooms Gorgo and Mydeimos had offered. Instead, he chose the most humble of the guest suites hidden away in the back.

At the very least, Mydeimos had been able to coerce Phainon to not take up a job at the palace. Instead, Phainon would go about his days alongside Mydeimos. 

Raised like me, Mydeimos had said. Rise together, eat together, train together, grow together.

It was not unheard of. Though his maid had initially cautioned against the idea, despite his own wishes and his mother’s seeming acceptance of it.

“They’re rather young, don’t you think? Wouldn’t it be better for Mydeimos to focus on his training without such distraction?”

Mydeimos had heard her speaking in a hushed tone to his mother one night, his ear pressed up against the door to hear better.

“Mydeimos isn’t a child anymore. Besides, I sense he will be more distracted if the boy isn’t here beside him. There’s no harm in letting him have a companion. Even if that . . . companion is one meant to endure and last his lifetime.”

Mydeimos hadn’t understood then what she meant, what she was thinking of. 

They were sixteen that year.

Phainon settled in easily, though it didn’t come as a surprise given how often he had been there in the years prior. Mydeimos had often snuck him inside to spar on the training grounds, to show him the collections of weapons they had, even to continue giving Phainon the books he seemed so interested in.

Phainon was a fast learner, easy to adapt. More than once Mydeimos had been taken aback by Phainon’s keen sense for battle, despite not having been raised as such. 

Oddly enough, it never sparkled a sense of insecurity in Mydeimos. Instead, all that was there was the rising burst of challenge, the thrill of togetherness.

Several nights after Phainon had moved in, the halls of the palace were rather quiet. Mydeimos could still hear the hearth’s fire, along with the occasional echoing of footsteps. He laid in bed unable to sleep, staring up at the ceiling. He wondered if Phainon was asleep yet. 

Quietly, he tossed the thin blanket he had been using to the side, standing up and padding out into the corridor. He wouldn’t be able to sleep like this.

The rest of the city was asleep as well it seemed, though Mydeimos was briefly paused by his mother’s guards standing at the gates of the residence. They let him go easy enough when he told them his purpose.

Mydeimos stopped when he reached the base of the hill, looking up at the temple. Its marble walls and columns shone underneath the skies. There would be one other inside.

His footsteps echoed as he came inside, as if walking through shallow water. Past the deity statues, past the inner shrine. Tucked away into the heart of the temple, an entrance one had to duck into.

There were candles lit on either side of the small enclave, their dim fire flickering across the walls. Mydeimos sat down, crossing his legs and placing his palms on his knees.

When he looked up, she was already laughing into her palm. Her voice was hoarse, crackling at every pitch. Like always, Mydeimos couldn’t see her face past the black veil she wore. All he could see were her decrepit hands, the jutting and crooked joints, skin leathery and wrinkled.

“Does the crown prince wish to hear his fate?”

“Yes.”

The oracle shook her head, leaning forward and twisting her neck to the side. “The Son of Gorgo should know better. The gods have already spoken.”

Mydeimos could feel the sharp edges of his teeth as he ran his tongue over them, nearly cutting the flesh there.

“You will tell me again.”

Her next laugh was a hiss, and the fires burned brighter around them. “Very well.”

She lifted her hands above her head, the golden bracelets adorning her wrists clinkling. 

“The Son of Gorgo is born in the summer sun, and is crowned in blood on the darkest day. When the world grows once more, he shall triumph over the accursed scar and pave the path for victorious return to the homeland.”

The oracle gasped for breath, dipping her head back.

“Yet the Son too shall perish by strife’s blade, holding his heart in his very hands as life fades away.”

She slumped down, as if whatever had been possessing her body had finally let go of the puppet strings holding her up. Her breathing was ragged, and through her veil she slowly looked back up at him.

“The years pass by . . . And yet you seem more afraid than ever before.”

Mydeimos’ throat had closed up. He could taste it then, thick on his tongue. The bitterness of fear. Why? Why?

“You still haven’t told anyone, have you?” she mocked. “Not your mother. Not your people. Not even your new found philia.”

And it was true. From the very first day, he had told no one the full truth of his fate. His mother had awaited him after he first left the oracle’s room, and he had only told her the first lines. She had smiled in relief, hugging him close.

He had lied even to Phainon.

“Tell me, little crown prince. What will you do when that day comes?”

Sheet-white, he stood up without a word and left the oracle behind him. She laughed, her voice echoing like broken sobs as he left the temple. 

It was a nauseating walk back home. Sharp, needle-like teeth seemed to eat him from the inside, piercing through his organs and spilling all that was left. He had the urge to scratch his skin open and peel out the parasite inside of himself. 

Mydeimos tumbled back inside, a hand against the wall as he tried to get back to his quarters. 

Unavoidable. You can’t run.

He tried to breathe and—

“Mydeimos?”

He jerked his head up, eyes wide as if expecting a blow.

Phainon stood there outside his door, squinting at him as if he just woke up. He blinked several more times before seeming to recognize that it was indeed him.

“What’s wrong?”

Mydeimos stared at him, breathing shuddered. Phainon took a step closer and put a hand on his shoulder. It was warm.

I should tell him.

Phainon would understand. He would. 

Tell him before it’s too late.

Yet Mydeimos couldn’t do it. 

Perhaps underneath it all, he did understand what was happening. What was going to happen. 

And Phainon deserved to know. 

“I-“

His heart clenched. It hurt more than anything.

“I just . . . need you,” he said in a small, hoarse voice. He hated being like this, cracked open and left for display. But if it were going to happen, he would rather it be to Phainon than anyone else.

Phainon’s hand dropped down from his shoulder, fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist. “Come with me.”

Mydeimos followed Phainon into his quarters, eyes adjusted now to the darkness. It wasn’t the first time they had done this. There were plenty of times that they had been together so long into the day that Phainon stayed over or Mydeimos slept beside the other on the floors of the stable. 

And yet, something was different as Phainon slid into his bed and lifted up the blanket for Mydeimos to lay beside him.

Their knees knocked together as they faced one another, and through low-lidded eyes, Mydeimos could see the moonlight spilling onto Phainon’s pale hair. Phainon’s fingers were still wrapped around Mydeimos’ wrist, his pinkie pressed softly over his pulse.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Phainon asked, just above a whisper. 

He did want to. But he couldn’t.

If Mydeimos told the truth, told Phainon everything, he couldn’t be sure Phainon would stay. At least not in the way that . . .

Mydeimos flexed his fingers. Who would want to stay by his side, knowing that he wasn’t meant to last? He knew he was selfish. 

“Will you always be by my side?”

Phainon’s gaze shifted into something Mydeimos couldn’t pinpoint.

“Why do you ask such a thing?”

“Just promise me,” Mydeimos whispered. “Promise me you’ll always be with me.”

Until the very end.

Phainon slid his fingers up past Mydeimos’ wrist, interlacing their fingers together. 

“I swear.”

Mydeimos closed his eyes, that ugly, sickening feeling in his stomach slowly fading away. Like this, he could pretend. Like this, he could lie.

He shifted closer across the bed, allowing their foreheads to press together. It felt complete to have Phainon by his side. 

Companions, his mother had called them. 

Mydeimos didn’t have a word for what they were. He curled his arm underneath Phainon’s, resting his palm against the other’s back. Together like this, he finally found himself fading into sleep.

 

~

 

There were bells ringing by the city walls when they returned home. Then, the crowding of people as Mydeimos and his mother led their entourage back through the main gate. They had only been gone for several weeks, to meet with the neighboring cities on the mainland that were still friends with his mother.

“It is wise to keep friends,” she had told him.

And so he had abided, draped in red fabric and adorning golden armbands, the golden wreath laurel atop his head matching his mother’s. 

A group of children lit up at the sight of them walking through the streets, cheeks red as they shuffled up to Mydeimos’ side and held out a handful of flowers for him to take. He took them from their small hands, ruffling the smallest one’s head before moving on beside his mother.

Quietly, he kept looking to either side of the stone pathway as they continued walking. 

“The crown prince is beginning to look like a king,” an older man commented to his mother, who looked down at him with pride.

He was finally let loose once they arrived back at the palace. There was a restless uncomfort blooming underneath his skin as he looked about. 

Eventually, he climbed his way up to one of the terraces, the white limestone there cool to the touch. Looking out over the rest of the city, he held on tighter to those flowers still in his hand.

“Looking for someone?”

Mydeimos turned around, narrowing his eyes.

“Haikas,” he snorted, that strange sensation from before dissipating.

“Is that all you have to say to me after leaving for weeks on end?” Phainon smiled, padding over to Mydeimos’ side. 

“You were the one hiding away.”

“I figured you’d come find me either way.”

And there was truth to that, though Mydeimos scowled at the self-assured look Phainon was giving him now. 

“You miss me?” Phainon asked, nudging a knuckle against Mydeimos’ wrist. 

He pulled back his hand, glaring.

“Why would I?”

Phainon smiled, the light above reflecting across his eyes. “I missed you.”

In some way, it didn’t come as a surprise. He knew that. Though it wasn’t often they spoke this honestly. 

Mydeimos gazed at him with a still expression, contemplating. Then, he closed his eyes, leaning forward and bumping their foreheads together once. 

“I told you to come with me,” Mydeimos said, pulling back.

“Does this brief parting hurt you so?”

“You’re the one who missed me.”

“And you sought me out as soon as you returned home.”

The day was hot, and eventually they found themselves sitting across the white limestone, at least Mydeimos had. He sat with his legs crossed, leaning back on his hands with straight elbows.

Phainon was lying perpendicular to him, hands resting on his stomach and head perched on Mydeimos’ thigh.

“I once thought politics would bore you,” Phainon had said, his eyes closed.

“So did I.”

Phainon smiled, one eye opening.

“You care for them a lot, don’t you?”

Mydeimos glanced back up towards the horizon line, eyes falling across everything that fell between. The city that had welcomed him back to this home, as temporary as it was.

“I didn’t always know it,” Mydeimos said somberly. “But over time I began to realize these were my people. There is a reason I am meant to protect them.”

There was a reason he would die for them.

“Honorable Mydeimos,” Phainon said, somewhere between fondness and teasing. “It is rather difficult to find any fault in you.”

Phainon tilted his head ever so slightly inwards, and Mydeimos felt the shifting of soft hair across his bare skin.

“Though Queen Gorgo had told me you still needed to work on smoothing out your blunt words.”

Mydeimos huffed, resisting the urge to bump Phainon’s head off his lap.

“But what was it like?” Phainon asked. “Making political alliances?”

Unfamiliar, but needed. He didn’t necessarily enjoy the action itself, but it gave him ease of mind afterward. Knowing that it meant something for the future, for their people. He said as much to Phainon, who hummed.

“And did you meet anyone?”

Mydeimos gave him a look. “I met hundreds.”

Phainon sighed in exasperation, as if he had expected Mydeimos to make any sense of whatever that meant.

“I meant did you meet someone?”

Mydeimos was silent at first.

Ah.

That sort of thing.

Indeed, more than once, a princess or son of royalty had been presented before him. Not that it really mattered, and not that his mother had ever pushed him to make any attempts to reciprocate.

“One day, Your Highness shall marry for the good of the people,” a caretaker had once told him as a child.

Unconsciously, Mydeimos leaned forward so he could block the sunlight bearing down onto Phainon’s face. 

“So now you take interest in political marriages?”

Before Phainon could respond, Mydeimos continued.

“If you wish to ask me whether there were offers made, subtle as they were, then the answer is yes.”

“And did you find someone suitable?”

Their eyes met.

As much as he knew Phainon, there were times, such as these, that he couldn’t entirely understand the underlying sway of his words. In his peripheral vision, he could see the odd curling of Phainon’s fingers.

“There was none whom I wished to court,” Mydeimos eventually said.

Somewhere to the left, wind chimes rang out in a distant song.

“And what of you?” he asked, now wishing to turn the subject away from himself.

“Me?”

“Do I have to repeat myself?”

Phainon laughed.

“No, I don’t suppose I will have time to find myself a lover.”

Mydeimos raised a brow. “And why is that?”

Phainon grinned, and Mydeimos could already see the joke forming around his mouth. 

“Aren’t I supposed to stay by your side? It would be rather difficult to split my time between you and them.”

Mydeimos scoffed, rolling his eyes. He knocked his fingers against Phainon’s cheek as if in reprimand.

It was a sticky summer heat, that day. Only the white floor had any relief, and by all rights, Phainon should have moved from his lap by now. Their skin was damp, the touch oddly warm. And yet Phainon had not moved. And Mydeimos’ hand had not moved.

Slowly, the hard angles of his fingers softened. His palm cupped Phainon’s cheek, fingertips touching the smooth skin behind his ear. His thumb rested over a line of cheekbone, and the meat of his palm brushed against the curve of Phainon’s upper lip.

He felt the touch of Phainon’s breath against his skin.

“I would . . .” 

He stopped himself. Then he watched as Phainon’s gaze became curious.

Eventually, he spoke. The words were ill-fitting on his tongue. “I would not stop you from finding a lover.”

After all, it would be wrong to. Every soul was meant to have its counterpart.

Phainon was still smiling, though there was undercurrent there.

“Would you meet my children then? Watch them grow up?”

He could imagine it, then. Phainon being a father. His children running by his knees, likely looking like Phainon. And then before that. Phainon beside another, kissing her temple and laying her down onto silken sheets. 

Something twisted in Mydeimos’ stomach.

But there was nothing he could say to it. 

If it were what Phainon truly wanted, then there was nothing. 

Conflicted, splintering feelings.

“Have you thought of me embracing another?” Phainon asked again.

Mydeimos stared down at him, silently. His jaw felt tight.

His fingers across Phainon’s face pressed in harder.

“Or perhaps of -“

Mydeimos cupped Phainon’s jaw tightly.

“You talk too much,” he warned.

Phainon’s eyes narrowed playfully.

“You don’t like to share,” Phainon chuckled.

Mydeimos tensed. “I told you I would not stop you.”

“You would just have to close your eyes to it?”

He felt as if Phainon were pulling back a layer of skin he hadn’t known was there before.

Phainon exhaled as Mydeimos took a breath in.

“I’ve already sworn myself to your side. It would not be so difficult to stop me.”

An unsettling warmth ached inside of him, and suddenly he questioned whether he should move Phainon from his lap.

“But truly, there was no one?” Phainon asked again, his breath warm against the pad of Mydeimos’ thumb.

Mydeimos’ movement halted, then finally he retracted his hand.

He had thought they were past that already.

“I told you no.”

“How surprising,” Phainon said with a keen look. “I would have thought at least one of them would stand out.”

None had. They couldn’t.

But Mydeimos was unsure of how to say such a thing, and so he settled for another response. 

“It is not something I have to concern myself with now.”

And then, strangely taut, “If the time comes, either my mother or the council will decide.”

He didn’t know why he said it. Not when a part of him knew he didn’t believe it.

He watched as Phainon subtly frowned. Had he not been so sharply focused on his expression he would have missed it.

“Is that not your choice to make?”

“I-“

And he stopped himself.

He would be dead.

There was no meaningful choice. Whoever was chosen to be by his side in the imaginary years he had left would have to grieve him.

He did not know when that day would come. And so, perhaps it was easier if that person meant nothing. A political alliance at the least.

Yet . . .

“I missed you,” he quietly finished.

It hadn’t made sense, and yet it still came out.

Once, when they were younger, Phainon had slept in his bed. It had been before he had truly become Mydeimos’ companion, instead only staying the night because they had stayed up for far too long the day before. In the morning, Mydeimos had awoken before him. He had silently looked over Phainon’s features, the slope of his straight nose and the length of his eyelashes. Then, as if taken over by the childish instincts inside of every young boy, he had leapt on top of Phainon to wake him.

Their noses had brushed together when Phainon jolted awake, and Mydeimos had grinned at his surprised expression.

It was somewhat similar to the expression Phainon had now, with his eyes widened with surprise and lips parted.

“I missed you too,” Phainon murmured.

You already said that.

And of course, Mydeimos knew that. He knew the way Phainon would be expecting him. He knew the way Phainon awaited his return.

And he didn’t want to think of it any longer.

“Come,” Mydeimos said, detaching himself from the pool of fear that had festered back inside of him. He placed his hand underneath Phainon’s head to begin lifting him up off his lap. “We should be back inside before the sun begins to set.”

Phainon gave him a look, but left it at that, expression returning back to normal.

Later that evening, as they sat next to one another for dinner, their ankles interlocked underneath the table.

 

~

 

The prophecy had yet to fully turn its head. Mydeimos no longer spoke to the oracle, but that final line crept into his body regardless. Yet life went on, Mydeimos growing into his second decade.

Off shore, war was brewing. Word spread throughout the land of a formal force to oppose Nikador’s army. 

And thus on their island, willing warriors were now being trained in and out, for an unspoken day when prophecy came true. Mydeimos assumed his role without objection.

Summer had returned. Mydeimos and Phainon had spent the morning sparring together, leading to an endless set of ties. Expected, as usual.

They were currently waiting for the afternoon’s duties - to oversee the new set of recruits and see where to assign each person. Phainon was lying down on one of the wooden daybeds, an arm tossed over his eyes to block the sun. Mydeimos stood beside him, waiting for the recruits to enter the training grounds.

He eventually found himself looking down at Phainon, eyes passing slowly over his body. Together, they had grown from boys into men. Gone were the awkward limbs, the harsh angles and lack of coordination.

Mydeimos noted the strength now in Phainon’s arms, the glide of muscle across his shoulders and chest. Their builds weren’t all so different. Though, where Phainon’s abdomen and waist were thicker, Mydeimos’ was just noticeably more taut. The difference was made up in their legs, where Mydeimos seemed to have more. At the end of their growth spurts, however, Phainon had won out in height by about a thumb’s worth.

His inspection was interrupted by Phainon pushing himself onto his elbow, propping his head onto his hand with fingers lacing into hair. He averted his gaze, looking back out at the training grounds.

Mydeimos flexed his fingers, somehow feeling unable to stand still for any longer. An odd sensation prickling up underneath his skin.

“Get up, you’ve rested enough,” he said.

Phainon hummed. “What, you want to play some more?”

Mydeimos shot him a glare. “Drills aren’t play.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Phainon caught the edge of his robe before he could walk away, tugging him back to sit beside him. 

“Rest for a moment. At least until the rest of the recruits come,” Phainon said, sitting up, their knees brushing against each other now. “It won’t do well for them to walk in on us fighting.”

“The whole point is for them to learn how to fight,” Mydeimos retorted.

“Then how about because I’d like to spend some time with you beyond the training field?”

Mydeimos paused at that, then frowned. 

“We are friends, aren’t we?” Phainon joked lightly. 

“Fine,” Mydeimos said in a low voice, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

Phainon smiled, posture relaxing as he sighed. 

After a moment, Mydeimos felt a touch at his arm. Phainon was gently tracing the lines of the crimson marks tattooed now across his skin. It had only been a week or so since they had been done. A coming of age ceremony for crown princes.

“Did it hurt?”

Mydeimos shook his head. It had felt different from anything else he had experienced, but it hadn’t hurt. He had seen too many blows now for such a thing to pain him.

Phainon’s fingers continued to follow the lines, crossing over until they were resting at his chest. Mydeimos gave him a sidelong glance, only to find Phainon no longer looking at his tattoos, but at the jutting of his throat. 

In the distance, there was the sound of the wooden gate opening, a call from one of the soldiers that they were entering with the recruits. 

Phainon retracted his hand, smiled, and stood up. 

“Shall we go greet them?”

 

~

 

The sky was transforming into a brilliant display of vibrant watercolors as afternoon became evening. Phainon eyed it from his bedchamber window as he finished getting dressed, then looked down at the white limestone buildings of the city. Torches were beginning to be lit across the streets, and he could already hear the melodies of lyres and kitharas being played.

There was a knock at his door and he turned back. He had left the door cracked open, and he saw that Gorgo was waiting there for permission.

“May I come in?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

She smiled with a soft laugh. “You don’t have to call me that, you know? You’ve lived in my home for years now.”

Phainon was relieved from having to respond to that as she came inside, coming to stand by his side in looking out the window.

“I half expected to see Mydeimos with you,” she said. “It seems impossible to separate the two of you.”

Phainon rubbed the back of his neck with a laugh. “Ah, well I’m supposed to meet him for the night market. I got a little caught up with teaching drills though, so he’ll have to wait a little longer.”

Gorgo hummed, resting her chin in her palm.

Phainon couldn’t help but glance at her arms, the scars there from years of fighting. Then briefly at her face. After all, it was easy to see the resemblance between her and Mydeimos. He wondered as time went on, if Mydeimos would age like she had. The pleasant smile lines and dips across her face.

Growing old together with Mydeimos was something Phainon had been thinking of lately. 

“He cares for you,” Gorgo said conversationally. Phainon paused, meeting her gaze.

“You know this, correct?”

He sensed nothing hidden in her words. She meant what she said plainly.

“Yes,” he finally answered.

She smiled. “It’s a good thing to have someone you care about. However you wish to define that care. When he was younger, I wasn’t sure if he would ever open his heart to such a thing.”

A breeze tousled her long hair, and she tucked the stray pieces behind her ear. “I remember the night he first took a life. He was so young, much younger than I was. When we were escaping the city, I held off as many of them as I could. I protected him with all I had. I knew they wanted him. I knew Nikador would stop at nothing to kill him. But there were so many of them.”

She looked down, a strange melancholy in her eyes. “He was injured; his back. And yet there was a man behind me, and he lifted his spear to cut me through. I thought it was over. I thought I failed him. But then there was blood, and the man fell. And when my vision focused, I saw my son standing there with a blade in his hand. I can’t describe to you the horror in his face. He was so quiet in the years following that. Even when he received his prophecy . . . I knew he was not truly happy. He was destined to be a hero, a legend. But he was not happy.”

Gorgo stilled, and then gazed at Phainon. The dim candlelight flicked in her eyes. “He was happy when you came into his life. You make him happy.”

He hadn’t expected this. He didn’t know what to think entirely. Carefully, but truthfully, he spoke.

“He makes me happy too.”

Gorgo cupped her palm against Phainon’s cheek. After all, she had watched him grow into a man as well.

“I wanted to tell you that it won’t be easy. Whatever it is between you two . . . Whether it be friendship or something more, it will not always be as easy as it is now.”

She continued on before he could reply. “Mydeimos wishes to protect you more than anything. I know this as his mother. I need to know that you will protect him as well.”

The sounds of the city seemed silent now, everything trapped in this small room. 

Mydeimos was strong. Strong in body and strong in will. Of course they could protect one another, they had been for years now. But Phainon knew that Gorgo wasn’t talking about that. 

“I would protect him with my heart,” Phainon promised.

After a moment, Gorgo let go of him, exhaling. She pushed herself off from the window. 

“I’m glad of all people that it was you,” she said. “Someone he could trust, and call his equal.”

She left the same way she had come in. “Give him my regards when you see him tonight. I’ll be gone until the morning.”

Despite being an hour late, it didn’t take long for Phainon to find Mydeimos. He simply had to follow a trail of overexcitable children. 

Regardless of Mydeimos’ status as crown prince and his more . . . intense appearance, children flocked to him wherever he went. Phainon covered his mouth to stop himself from laughing when he finally found Mydeimos. 

The man was surrounded by about a dozen kids, two hanging off either shoulder, one holding on to his arm like he was her father, and the rest scattered by his legs. There was clearly some sort of competition going on, all the children holding samples of dishes in wrappings for him to try. They had likely come from their parent’s stalls at the night market.

“Which one is best, Prince Mydeimos?” one of the girls asked, a bit of a demand in her tone.

Mydeimos glanced across the rest of the kids staring at him with expectant gazes.

“. . . They’re all good.”

There was a collective grumble of disappointment amongst the crowd of children, some of them even opting to boo their prince.

Phainon decided he might as well step in to save Mydeimos from his dilemma. “I’m sure your prince is telling the truth,” he said, smiling when Mydeimos finally looked up at him. “After all, he is quite the picky eater.”

“Phainon!” some of the children exclaimed, a few running over to hug his legs. He grinned, ruffling a hand through their hair. 

Mydeimos gave him a pointed look. “Decided to finally come out?”

But the kids were already tugging at Phainon’s hands, pulling him over to force him into the same judging contest. Phainon mouthed a sorry to Mydeimos, who only rolled his eyes.

After another round of coercion from the children, and the eventual crowning of the winner to the girl who had brought her father’s dolma, Phainon and Mydeimos were finally freed.

It was a pleasant thing, watching Mydeimos indulge and enjoy. Fondly, Phainon pulled Mydeimos through the various stalls, preferencing the ones he knew the other would enjoy the most. Honeycomb, slices of spiced lamb, pomegranate milk, cheeses and sweetened pastries. There was a certain focused look that Mydeimos had, a srunching of the brow and thinning of the lips, whenever he enjoyed food. If there was a polite look, Phainon knew Mydeimos would never try it again.

By the time they got through all the stalls, Mydeimos looked like he couldn’t take another step. They ended up finding a secluded spot atop one of the libraries to sit on, their feet dangling off the roof side. Like this, they could still hear the bustling of the market but also have enough space to hear each other.

“Did something happen?” Mydeimos asked plainly.

“Hm?”

Mydeimos leaned back on his hands, neck bent so he could look up at the constellations beginning to appear in the sky. “You’re usually chatting my ear off.”

Phainon puffed a short laugh through his nose. That was fair enough to say. He supposed he had been a bit quieter today, taking the time to observe Mydeimos more after his conversation with Gorgo. 

“I spoke with your mother.”

Mydeimos raised a brow, but didn’t seem immediately concerned. “Last I remembered you spoke with her every evening.”

Phainon knocked their shoulders together. “I guess she was in a sentimental mood about you.”

He began to look up at the stars with Mydeimos.

“Do you remember the first time we fought?” 

Competition was a common occurrence between them, along with the bickering and play fights. But a real argument between the two of them was less common by far. 

Mydeimos hummed in affirmation.

It was probably a few months after they had first met. Mydeimos was insistent on Phainon leaving the farm now that the harvest season was over, beginning to take personal offense to him not moving in. Phainon had been just as stubborn, arguing that Mydeimos failed to look beyond a perspective outside of his own as a crown prince. Heated words became a full blown shouting match, which then devolved into a few punches being thrown and them both storming off with bloody noses. They didn’t talk for a week afterward.

“Back then . . . I was worried we wouldn’t ever talk again. I thought for a moment that you would leave me,” Phainon admitted. 

Mydeimos glanced at him, eyes looking at him once over. “You thought I would leave you?”

His voice wasn’t hurt, but there was an odd lilt to it.

“Back then I was scared of being left behind,” Phainon said. “Whether it be my parents or you. I didn’t want to be alone. I was surprised when you were the first to come back.”

It had been late in the evening when Mydeimos had slipped into the stable and apologized to him. Clearly the boy wasn’t used to such a thing, eyes avoidant and posture stiff as he muttered out an apology. Phainon remembered him staying though, and it was the first time they had ever slept in the same bed. Their backs had been pressed together, sharing the ragged blanket Phainon had been using over the years.

“After you saved me in the cave that day, that fear began to fade away,” Phainon continued softly. “I came to understand that . . . you would always be by my side. Just like how I’ll be by yours.”

Mydeimos gazed at him. “You really have been speaking to my mother.”

Phainon smiled. 

“You know I—” Mydeimos started, before looking off to the side. Phainon could see his ears growing red.

“I’ll protect you until my dying breath.”

“Feeling poetic?”

Mydeimos glowered at him, and Phainon just laughed. “Alright, alright. Then me too. Until my dying breath.”

It felt like a vow of sorts.

He could sense that Mydeimos was in a mood now, and distracted him by pointing up towards the western part of the night sky. “You see that? One day we should have that constellation named after you.”

He pointed out the brightest star of the set as Mydeimos’ heart, then the line of his chiton, his limbs and then the three-starred crown.

Mydeimos was still frowning, but at the very least was paying attention. He tilted his head to the side some, eyes focusing. 

Then, Mydeimos pointed to the right of his constellation. 

“That one is you.”

He drew out its shape, their two forms overlapping. 

“The star in the middle,” Mydeimos said. “We can share it.”

“The heart?”

“Mn.”

Phainon continued to gaze up at their constellations, tracing them in his mind's eye over and over again.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll share a heart.”

 

~

 

It was a colder day, and Phainon could feel the stinging of windchill against his cheeks. He was wrapped in a wool himation, sitting on the stone hearth of one of the fireplaces. Its warmth pressed against his back as he flipped to another page of the book given to him.

“If you are to remain by my son’s side, you must familiarize yourself with the world he will live in. I will not always be there to speak with him, to advise him.”

It was a compilation of both history and politics, some of which he was somewhat familiar with. But because it was Gorgo, because it was Mydeimos, he embraced it without question.

Finishing the chapter he was on, he looked up from the book and towards the open courtyard, where Mydeimos was practicing his spear throwing. He hasn’t missed his mark once, but Phainon still found some humor at the way all the palace staff were steering clear of the area. 

Phainon watched as Mydeimos continued, the young man wearing a chlamys instead for flexibility. It allowed him to see the taut lines of Mydeimos’ body as he sent another spearhead flying into the bullseye of his target across the courtyard. Even in the heart of winter, Mydeimos’ skin was far more golden than Phainon’s.

There was still a youthful strength to Mydeimos, though now undoubtedly maturing. Phainon had not been the first to think it, given the fact that he had heard the chatter of the cityfolk and the rumors that Mydeimos surely had been touched by the gods themselves. It would not surprise Phainon, not at all.

Though, he had heard the whispers concerning himself as well.

The gods sent Prince Mydeimos an equal to be his life-long companion. And so too has he been blessed.

They did not mean it to be treasonous to the line of royalty, but instead of their bond. And for that reason, Phainon did not cast out their words upon hearing them.

Mydeimos had been practicing for over an hour now without pause, and yet showed no sign of exhaustion or wear. Phainon smiled.

And then Mydeimos turned his head, their eyes meeting. He didn’t seem surprised to see Phainon looking at him.

Phainon placed the book down, eyes curling into crescents as he stood up. 

“How about a real target?” he asked.

The first time he had ever fought Mydeimos like this, he had been thrown onto his back within seconds. Strangely, Mydeimos hadn’t seemed too pleased with that fact. It was part of the reason why he had demanded Phainon be beside him at his sword lessons.

Phainon hadn’t understood at first. But over time, he began to realize that Mydeimos didn’t necessarily care about winning, but he cared for the battle.

And so it wasn’t a surprise either when Mydeimos nodded, fingers likely itching to pick up a sword. 

They grabbed two practice swords off the wooden racks, and Phainon flipped the hilt around in his hands. They circled each other in the open courtyard now, eyeing one another.

“Think you can beat me this time?” Phainon asked, and Mydeimos lifted his jaw in challenge.

Mydeimos was blunt and vicious in his swordplay, he always had been. It was a trait he had learned from his mother, the full strength of his body swinging the blade with brutal speed. When they finally broke the distance between them, and their practice swords first clashed, Phainon could feel the force of the impact travel through his wrists and shoulders. It nearly wrenched his own sword out of his hands, and he was forced to take a step backwards to keep his balance.

Mydeimos grinned, and returned again with two strikes that Phainon deflected back. There was a thrumming in his chest, the one he was so familiar with. But perhaps it was only here that he could feel this particular warmth, in the heat of battle with Mydeimos. It was more than competition, it always had been, even from the first day. 

It was another way they spoke to each other, in a language only they understood.

And so he took advantage of the space in the courtyard, pulling Mydeimos in and parrying him. It was likely only himself and their swordsmaster who knew this, but Mydeimos’ greatest weakness was his stubbornness. He was unrelenting, but in that Phainon could see the lines where Mydeimos would refuse to see another path. Paths that Phainon had no objection to following.

Both of them were beginning to breathe harder, the thicker robes they were wearing becoming stuffy. Their hair was beginning to darken with sweat as they continued.

Phainon saw the opening, and took it.

He watched as Mydeimos swerved to the left, bringing his sword across with unparalleled strength. Phainon defended his side, and allowed his stance to falter. 

Keenly, he saw the moment Mydeimos realized it too. The way Mydeimos thought he had broken through Phainon’s balance, and was now preparing for a final blow to finish this.

Mydeimos’ sword was already swinging, the momentum far too strong to change.

Sidestepping, Phainon cleanly pushed his sword’s blade past Mydeimos’, and straight into the man’s stomach.

A feint.

Even with it being a wooden practice blade, Phainon knew it would hurt. But they had done this plenty of times before. Mydeimos’ eyes went wide, and Phainon brought the edge up to his throat, holding it steady there.

Panting heavily, he smiled.

“A child’s tactic,” Mydeimos said, but there was no venom in his words. “No honor.”

“There is honor in clever swordplay,” Phainon responded, pulling his blade back and letting it fall to the ground. It clattered against the stone flooring. “But I wouldn’t expect you to know that.”

Mydeimos huffed softly, but dropped his sword as well. “Fine. A win is a win.”

The man didn’t stop him when Phainon hooked their arms together, falling back onto his side and bringing Mydeimos with him. Their breaths were squeezed as they fell back onto the hard floor, and Phainon once again could feel the cold air against his face.

“You should have learned by now I’ll use that against you,” Phainon said, half-joking.

“I know,” is what Mydeimos eventually said back.

Phainon took another breath through his nose, the sensation almost burning. “One day, you’ll have to accept change. Not everyone will fight like you do. Life won’t always abide by your rules.”

This time, Mydeimos didn’t say anything back, but Phainon hadn’t expected him to either.

“Stubborn man,” he said instead, turning his head to look at Mydeimos beside him.

Mydeimos narrowed his eyes carefully. “We’ll see if your tricks hold up next time.”

Per usual, Mydeimos was likely to take victory. It always seemed to be like that, their losses and wins switching off. And so he simply nodded, then sighing before reaching up with his hand.

“This mane of yours is getting long,” Phainon commented, running his fingers through the hair falling past Mydeimos’ shoulder.

By the day, Mydeimos was looking more like a king. He wore the golden armbands around his biceps consistently now, with the crimson tattoos becoming a familiar sight as well. 

And Mydeimos again said nothing, simply lying there with his eyes closed. To another, it might appear as if he were glowering over the loss. But Phainon knew that this was contentment. Mydeimos was happy, in his own curious way.

So Phainon closed his eyes as well, feeling distinctly how his hand itched to grab ahold of Mydeimos’. But for now, he would wait.

He felt no impending need to rush toward the finish line, to clutch Mydeimos in his arms as if the night were incoming. They had grown from children into young men together. And one day, with every passing moment, they would grow older together too. And so he would allow these moments to stretch, to intertwine and dance until they found one another with no hesitation.

It had snowed once on the island many years ago. It lasted minutes at most. And yet Phainon could remember it distinctly, the sight of Mydeimos standing underneath a blanketed sky of silver and grays. His outstretched palms, wide eyes and look of wonder.

Phainon had swore to himself in that moment, swore it on his life, that once this was all over, once Mydeimos was free from his prophecy, that Phainon would take him to a place that was showered in sparkling snow. 

 

~

 

They were laying on Mydeimos’ bed, hair still wet from jumping into the cold pools together earlier. Their wet clothing had been tossed aside, and instead they were propped onto the bed completely bare, outside of the fur pelts covering their waists. It wasn’t an unusual thing, given how many times they had seen each other’s bodies whether it be during a swim or in the baths. 

Mydeimos was on his stomach, propped up by his elbows while Phainon was lying on his back. He was fiddling with the plate of bread and cheeses that had been brought by one of the palace staff, feeling the tug of sleep after having swam for so long in cold waters.

Phainon sighed, and without looking away from the ceiling, extended his hand out. Wordlessly, Mydeimos placed a bit of bread there for Phainon to take. 

The fireplace crackled, a log shifting. Their skin was beginning to warm, and Mydeimos was somewhat aware of how their ankles were touching underneath the furs. 

“We’ve just about dug this island clean,” Phainon said, almost sluggishly as if he too were about to fall asleep. He rolled onto his side, now facing Mydeimos. “Perhaps we should go to the mainland sooner, just so we can find some new water holes.”

“I doubt we’ll always have the time to do such things.”

“And that’s why we should go now.”

Mydeimos smiled some as he dipped his finger into the shallow dish of honey left on the plate, licking against its sweetness. It was a welcome taste in the heart of winter. 

“Give me some,” Phainon said, and Mydeimos huffed.

“I’m not your servant,” he grunted, swiping his thumb into the dish and pushing it past Phaion’s lips.

He hadn’t meant it seriously, thinking it more of a way to discipline Phainon than anything else. But then Phainon’s fingers were wrapped loosely around his wrist, and his eyes were gleaming with a sense of teasing. Mydeimos paused as Phainon held his thumb past his lips, slowly beginning to suck on the pad, tongue warm and wet. 

Phainon let him go with a pop, grinning. Mydeimos pulled his hand back, glaring and face warm.

“You’re disgusting.”

Phainon laughed, looking far too pleased with himself. Mydeimos scowled and pulled a strand of his hair in retaliation. 

“So serious,” Phainon said. “Can’t take a joke?”

“What joke?” Mydeimos muttered, feeling oddly bothered by whatever that was. 

“Here, let me return the favor,” Phainon said, dipping his index and middle finger into the honey and lifting it up for Mydeimos. “See? Now I can serve you.”

Feathers ruffling, Mydeimos shot another hard glance at Phainon. “I’m not indulging your idiotic absurdities.” 

He watched the exact moment Phainon’s smile curled, and he knew that Phainon had always known how to pull his strings.

“Too scared?”

When Mydeimos finally took Phainon’s fingers, he had made sure to not be careful with his teeth, biting down hard before cleaning off the skin there. He had wanted it to be just that. And yet when their eyes met, when he felt the exact moment of what they were doing, all thought became muffled. 

Distantly, unconsciously, his hips shifted against the bedding below him.

Phainon’s head tilted almost playfully when Mydeimos let him go. And then his eyes gestured back to the dish of honey.

A part of Mydeimos had wanted to break the strange atmosphere, shake his head or push at Phainon’s forehead. But instead he couldn’t look away, silently dipping his index finger back into that syrupy gold. Phainon’s tongue was softer than he had imagined it to be. His mouth was warm. He pressed down just slightly, and Phainon made a soft laugh through his nose.

Back and forth, again and again, as if this were normal. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Phainon asked, eyes trailing Mydeimos’ lips before pulling his finger out from his mouth. Mydeimos could feel the absence of its weight. He nodded.

“At the beginning, whenever you slept, I would watch you sometimes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted softly. “Perhaps because you slept so deeply. You never moved. You breathed so slowly, sometimes I thought you were dead. And so I’d watch you, and every so often, I’d put my head across your chest so I could hear your heartbeat.”

“And now?”

“Now?”

“Do you still do such a thing?” Mydeimos asked. 

“No, not anymore,” Phainon said, and their fingers touched across the sheets. “Though I know you still sleep just as deeply.”

Phainon himself was a light sleeper, this Mydeimos knew well enough. It wasn’t a surprise when coming into his bed chamber, even as quiet as can be, for Phainon’s eyes to open as if he had been awake all along.

There are parts of you that I know more than myself.

“Your turn,” Phainon said, smiling innocently. “One you’ve never told anyone.”

‘I don’t have any secrets,’ Mydeimos had wanted to say, but immediately stopped himself. But before the wave of guilt and dread began to swarm too much, his thoughts were interrupted by Phainon manhandling his wrist, dripping his fingers into the honey and bringing it up to his mouth. Mydeimos watched, wide-eyed, as Phainon didn’t suck on his fingers, but instead licked at the dripping honey. Long stripes up the knuckles, even going down to clean between the webbing of each finger.

Mind awry, Mydeimos’ ribs ached from the sudden tightness in his chest. His fingers touched Phainon’s lips, rubbing across them once. 

If he wanted to, he could pull Phainon closer.

He blinked, and pulled back his hand.

The warmth was suddenly far too searing.

“That’s enough,” Mydeimos finally said, voice quiet but hoarse. His fingers were burning, and he was suddenly overtly aware of the intensity of Phainon’s gaze. Confused and unwilling to admit what this feeling was, pooling up inside of himself with no abandon. 

Tipping, closer and closer to the edge.

“We have an early morning tomorrow,” and Mydeimos wasn’t sure if he was talking to Phainon or himself now, as he flipped himself over so he wasn’t facing Phainon any more. 

Phainon laughed softly after a moment, as if amused, shifting onto his side as well. Their backs were still pressed together, and Mydeimos closed his eyes, trying to calm his breath.

 

~

 

Spring brought about the warmth of the sun once more, and the world flourished once again. Barren soil gave way to damp moss, yellow and pink flowers began to splatter across fields, and the pomegranate trees were beginning to blossom.

And of course, it brought about the annual games.

They were hosted just outside of the city in a cleared meadow, with tiered wooden stands circling around the arena. At the head of it was an erected dais with seating for the royal family, their closest advisors, generals, and friends. Gorgo sat at the center with Mydeimos to her right, and then Phainon beside him. It was a pleasant day, and the people were already rapt with excitement.

Both Phainon and himself wore shorter chitons today, their arms and legs bare and half of their chests exposed. 

For the most part, Mydeimos and his mother watched on the dias, awarding wreaths of wild olive leaves to the victors of each game. Occasionally, however, they participated when challenged. His mother had already championed archery and discus, and himself javelin throwing.

The last foot race was the beginning, and athletes had already begun entering the field. Mydeimos shifted in his throne, leaning forward as he saw Phainon join the group at the starting line. As if on cue, Phainon looked back, waving once with a boy-ish grin.

“Don’t let your favoritism be so obvious,” Gorgo said in amusement, leaning back in her seat.

A trumpet cry marked the beginning, dust dancing up into a small cloud as the runners kicked off. Phainon had a graceful stride, with strong legs and a perfect form. He was already known as the fastest runner they had, and it came as no surprise when he took the lead by a generous margin. Mydeimos had his chin resting in his hand as Phainon crossed over the finish line to a thunderous applause of the crowd, his smile hidden behind his fingers.

When Phainon came unto the dais to receive his wreath, Mydeimos could see the sweat gleaming across his skin and the tussling of his hair. Phainon bowed his head, still smiling, and Mydeimos crowned him with the wreath.

“Is there any other gift we may impart on you, victor?” Mydeimos asked. It was a matter of custom for them to ask every victor, though each would most often reply that this honor was worth greater than any other.

He hadn’t known exactly when it happened, but Phainon’s fingers were wrapped around his wrist, his thumb rubbing circles across his pulse point.

“Just your company tonight will be enough,” he teasingly said, and Mydeimos glared.

Phainon laughed, and squeezed Mydeimos’ wrist. “Go on then, it’s your turn now.”

The final event to end the day would be wrestling. As custom, Mydeimos would wait for the final victor to challenge him, and then take the stage. 

His mother had been a champion in the game for many years, but now had left Mydeimos in the last several to take her place. After all, to the people, these sorts of matches were proof of a strong ruler. It was one of the fastest ways to be seen as both an established champion but also a future king.

A man just a few years older than him had won through the matches, and an excited hum radiated from the crowd as he approached the dais. 

Everyone hushed as he knelt, bowing his head to Mydeimos.

“It would be my honor to challenge his Highness to combat.”

His eyes met Phainon’s for just a moment, and he stood up. 

“I will grant you this honor,” he said, and the crowd applauded with cheer and chanting.

Attendants undressed him as he came down onto the field, oiling his skin before dusting it with powder. More than once, he looked back up at the dais to Phainon. He could barely hear anything past the roar of the crowd, but he could see Phainon mouthing something.

Don’t slip.

Mydeimos rolled his eyes with a huff of amusement.

They gripped each other’s shoulders with open palms, and the match began. 

It felt good, to put effort into his body, and the physicality of combat like this. It didn’t take but a handful of minutes before Mydeimos was able to lock his elbow around the man’s throat, however, and push him down onto the ground.

It was a memorable and clean way to end the games, and attendants scrubbed the oil from Mydeimos as his mother gave parting words to the crowd. There would be food and wine and music throughout the evening to close out the day, and the mass of people began heading back into the city.

The palace doors were open for the night, though Mydeimos and Phainon eventually found themselves lounging on one of couches in the main hall, allowing any guests or friends to come up to speak with them.

Casks of wine were cracked open, poured freely into the cups being passed around. Great platters of food were prepared, with olives and grapes, slices of lamb and fish, honeycomb and thick bread. 

Phainon had always been the better conversationalist between the two of them, and Mydeimos watched fondly as he entertained the crowd of people standing before them, telling a story from earlier today. Mydeimos’ arm was casually stretched between them, his hand cupped on Phainon’s shoulder, but every so often brushing Phainon’s neck. 

It was not an odd thing, and not one of their accomplices paid it any mind. After all, their friendship was well known by now. 

Mydeimos ducked his head down with a laugh when Phainon told a particularly humorous story, and he could hear Phainon laughing as well. 

“More wine!” someone called out, which was met with cheers of approval. 

Mydeimos and Phainon’s cups were filled once again, and just as quickly emptied. The heat of the alcohol settled pleasantly under his skin, and Mydeimos could feel the tell-tale signs of drunkenness approaching. It made the atmosphere lighter, with smiles and laughter coming easier. He spoke more freely with the people around him, unaware of how they brightened under his attention.

Perhaps the only thing that settled his mind in the moment was the steady warmth of Phainon’s hand resting on his upper thigh. Unmoving, but present nonetheless.

When the evening shifted into night, and the music became softer, Mydeimos and Phainon took their leave. They were leaning on one another as they stumbled down the hallways, bumping a few times into the tapestries hung upon the stone walls.

“Haikas,” Mydeimos groaned as Phainon crushed him into another wall.

They took another few steps forward and Mydeimos nearly tripped on himself too.

Phainon laughed, squeezing him in closer. “We’re so close.”

Eventually, they made it to Mydeimos’ quarters, unceremoniously slamming the door shut. Mydeimos would have thought they would have immediately fallen onto one of the daybeds and slept without even undressing, but they remained standing by the doorway.

How many times had Phainon been here like this? Likely countless. Despite their separate chambers, they often slept in one another’s beds without any question, without ever truly addressing it.

Mydeimos had known as time went on, as they grew out of childhood, that it was less normal. But he hadn’t cared because it was Phainon. Who was there to question him on this?

“Guess what I’m thinking about,” Phainon said.

“Something stupid.”

Phainon flicked him across his brow. “That man you wrestled with.”

“What about him?”

“Wasn’t it obvious he likes you?”

Mydeimos gave him an odd look.

Phainon raised a brow. “Did you not see the way he was preening for your attention the entire evening? He wasn’t interested in a word I said.”

“I wouldn’t blame him for the latter,” Mydeimos said, crossing his arms and leaning against the door. “But any sense you had must been left behind in that race of yours.”

“You’re oblivious.”

“Why were you lingering your attention on him then?” Mydeimos asked plainly.

Mydeimos had paid the man little mind, though apparently Phainon hadn’t.

“It was hard not noticing his fumbling attempts to woo you.”

“I see. And what exactly would you have preferred?”

Mydeimos’ skin was still burning warm from the wine, and his mood was pleasant.

“I know you well enough to do better than that.”

Dizzy, Mydeimos gave a low laugh. “Will you now attempt to court me like a maiden?”

“Would you like me to try?”

“I’d find it humorous.”

Phainon smiled, and the distance between them became smaller. It was a teasing atmosphere, not unlike what Mydeimos was used to when they were drunk together.

He listened as Phainon spoke to him, not a whisper, but softer than usual. Mydeimos had expected some grandeur tale of courting, of gift-giving or acts of courage. But all Phainon described was their day so far. All they had done, all the ways they had been together up until this very moment.

At some point, Phainon had put a hand on the dip of Mydeimos’ waist, palm flat against muscle.

In some way, Mydeimos had to feel as if Phainon was simply drunk and rambling nonsense at this point, likely having forgotten what he was supposed to be talking about.

“And afterwards, we’d go to your room where no one else could see us.”

Mydeimos gave him an even look. “This sounds familiar.”

Phainon didn’t pause before continuing.

“I’d kiss you before taking your robes off.”

Mydeimos stared at him, his vision swirling.

He could feel the warmth of Phainon’s hand on him.

It was impossible to not feel whatever shift had just occurred.

“You jest,” Mydeimos said slowly, finally.

Phainon smiled. “Of course. I jest. But let me humor us, won’t you?”

The man rubbed a hand over Mydeimos’ waist in question. “Okay?”

Mydeimos exhaled, a strange sensation traveling up the length of his spine.

He could back away now. Let the drunken daze be the excuse, let all of this be a dream they never had to speak of again.

“Okay,” he said.

Mydeimos couldn’t close his eyes, couldn’t break away from the intensity of Phainon’s gaze on him. Their foreheads knocked together, and Mydeimos could feel the heat of Phainon’s breath. Their mouths were so close together, and something was changing. A catalyst for something much greater, fate shifting into place.

He hadn’t the mind nor the will to stop it.

“I’d think you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Phainon asked. “Having my hands on you.”

His hands were on him.

Mydeimos just nodded, their noses pressed against one another. 

“I thought about it all of today. How much I want to pull you against me.”

Their waists were pressed flush together, and slowly, eventually, Mydeimos began to realize that Phainon was hard against him.

In distant, repressed dreams, he had imagined strong hands against his own. The twisting of bodies, ever so familiar with one another and yet finally exploring the unknown. Curved lips and the sweetness of a mouth that he had spent so many years looking upon.

Thoughtless, he nodded again. 

Then, as they brushed against each other, he felt himself stiffening against Phainon. Their lengths pressed up together. He heard them both suck in a breath, and the heat became almost unbearable.

Mydeimos, unable to stop it, grinded up against Phainon, watching the curve of his smile. Then again, and again, until a coaxing feeling spread across his body.

The dry fabric between them gave friction, a strange but addicting barrier between them. Rocking up against each other, the motions of fucking were undeniable. 

Breathy pants escaped their lips, desire pooling deep in Mydeimos’ stomach.

Mydeimos cursed, holding onto Phainon’s waist tighter, harder. In the daze, he thought of Phainon today. The curving muscles of his back, his boy-ish grin, the broad expanse of his abdomen. The way his eyes tracked Phainon’s body throughout it all, the itching of his skin and the answer to that now revealed.

He knew how it felt to have Phainon’s bare skin pressed against his own, the flushing heat and the pounding of their chests. And he wanted more.

“Do it,” Mydeimos breathlessly demanded in the shallow space between them.

Their lips drew closer, and Mydeimos began to close his eyes, letting go. Phainon’s hand dipped underneath his chiton and onto the bare skin of his inner thigh.

There was a banging at the door. The glass box surrounding them shattered apart, and Mydeimos jerked backwards, shoving Phainon off of him. 

They stared at one another, still drunk, still in a daze. Yet somehow shockingly sober now.

The aftermath of what had just happened was lingering in the air, tense and fragile.

There was another knock.

“Your Highness? Apologies for the disturbance so late. But the guard is awaiting your orders for tomorrow’s drill.”

Mydeimos finally blinked, time beginning to flow once again. 

Tensely, he spoke aloud. “I’ll be there shortly.”

The effect of the wine was quickly fading away, whatever excuse for what had just transpired gone. It was the most uncertain he had ever felt in his life.

He had never once doubted the strength of their bond, not since that day Phainon had sworn himself to him. But this was . . . different. 

And so he readjusted the pin of his chiton, avoiding Phainon’s gaze on him. He couldn’t bring himself to see whatever expression the other was wearing, whether it be horror or regret.

Quietly, without a word, he opened the door and left to speak to the men in the courtyard.

Phainon was gone by the time he came back.

 

~

 

Mydeimos had slept fitfully that night, unwilling to think of what had happened, yet also unable to truly forget it. They had touched one another. 

But the next morning, at a later breakfast than usual to account for the amount of alcohol last night, Phainon had only smiled and sat beside him like usual. When they practiced their spear forms later that afternoon, Phainon had touched the small of his back when Mydeimos had done something of praise. Something had changed, but silently.

And it was like this for many days and weeks.

They hadn’t spoken about it since. With the way things were, Mydeimos wondered if he had just dreamed it.

It had almost fallen into obscurity of the subconscious, when Mydeimos had been resting upon a daybed in one of the secluded reading rooms on the upper floors. A distant breeze fluttered the silken drapes by the window, and Mydeimos had his eyes closed. Phainon was on the other side of the room, softly playing a lyre. Phainon had always been better than Mydeimos when it came to music, and the headache that had been plaguing him for the last half hour finally began to dissipate. 

He had spent the morning in conversation with the council, with his mother and Phainon there as well. There was disagreement on how much assistance they should be giving their neighboring cities once again. 

War was brewing, worse than before. Half of the council had suggested they fully commit themselves to the cause against Nikador. The other half adamantly disagreed, believing that they should wait until the time was best for Mydeimos to face against him.

Somehow both sides had been utterly grating and utterly unhelpful. The conversation had been tabled, with the only agreement being they send ships and supplies, along with opening their borders to any who needed refuge.

It felt like an illness, a slow death that crept silently. The signs of the prophecy approaching felt undeniable. How much longer was it? How many more years, if even?

The unrest in his chest had finally begun to loosen, however, lying here with Phainon playing beside him. 

The door was closed, and it was only them.

“Do you ever wonder,” Mydeimos calmly said, his voice steady, “What our lives would have been like had you never found me that day?”

He was, of course, speaking of the day Phainon had woken him. When it all began.

Phainon did not cease his playing. “I suppose I would still be on that farm today. But . . . maybe we would have met another way.”

Mydeimos took a deep breath, almost tasting the sweetness of the air. Yes, he would like that. 

“I would be very little without you,” Mydeimos said.

The soft strum of the lyre stopped. Mydeimos still hadn’t opened his eyes, but he could feel Phainon’s gaze on him. The other was likely pondering how to respond to such a claim.

“Then so too would I.”

He heard Phainon put the lyre down. 

“The council meeting today bothered you.”

Mydeimos eyelids fluttered open. “Those councilmen do little to assist my own uncertainty.”

Of when he should claim his fate and go forth to die.

How much longer should he wait, idly biding his time on this island in the name of training, when truly it was because of one reason.

His life was little more than words of a prophecy without Phainon. He had a purpose to serve in the stories of legend, of history. His one role, his only role, was to defeat the conqueror, the king of strife. He would set forth an era of peace, of return to homelands. But his own story would end there.

Without Phainon, he was no more than a mere weapon. Phainon is what gave him life, gave him purpose outside of fate’s direction.

He knew the longer he waited, the more lives were lost. But to face Nikador now would mean the end of his own life, and the end of the life he had created with Phainon.

And Phainon knew none of this. 

So Mydeimos could only respond in half truths.

Phainon came to sit down at the end of the daybed, lifting up Mydeimos’ feet and allowing them to rest on his lap as he settled. Mydeimos thought nothing of it, used to these touches.

“Perhaps I should have you as my strategist. At least you speak something of value, unlike those old mules. Their minds have lost their edge.”

Phainon exhaled a short laugh through his nose. “I know they frustrate you at times. But with age comes experience. Do not discard their advice so easily.”

Mydeimos rolled his eyes, dropping his head back. “Then you may join them without me.”

“Is that so? You’d leave me behind?”

Phainon rested his hand on Mydeimos’ ankle, rubbing his thumb there in circles. Slow, and fluid.

Mydeimos thought back to their childhood, of Phainon chasing after him.

“As if you’d let me.”

Their words from there were like honey, slow and stretching. The afternoon was becoming evening, the glow of the sun a gold like no other. It shined in through the open window, everything colored in its basking light. Mydeimos said nothing, eyes now carefully watching Phainon’s hand. 

His long fingers, the jutting of his knuckles, the tendons stretching out on the back of his hand. Phainon’s palm moved up from his ankle, sliding up closer to his knee.

There was an odd feeling in his stomach, and when he looked up from Phainon’s hand, he saw the other looking back at him too.

Phainon tilted his head to the side, eyes searching Mydeimos’. 

“Do not let such burdens plague your mind, Mydeimos,” he said softly. 

And Mydeimos relented to him, willingly allowing those thoughts to fall back into the depths of his consciousness. 

“Just be here with me. Just this moment.”

Mydeimos dipped his heel so it was caught around the back of Phainon’s waist, subtly closing in the space between them.

Phainon shifted closer, and Mydeimos was still lying halfway back, their eye contact not broken as Phainon rested his hand on the inside of Mydeimos’ thigh. They said nothing, but their lips were parted, and Mydeimos could feel his breath becoming heavier.

And Mydeimos knew then, that despite their silence on the matter, that the both of them had been thinking of that day ever since. Of their bodies pressed together, the things they had said. That warm feeling returned to him, twisting and aching inside.

Phainon slipped his hand underneath loose folds of fabric, fingers sliding around Mydeimos’ cock. Mydeimos’ abdomen stiffened, muscles tightening as Phainon squeezed him and began to stroke. 

He closed his eyes when Phainon rubbed his thumb over the head and slit, shakily exhaling when he felt the slide of the other’s palm down his length.

“Look at me,” Phainon finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, but strained, and he was closer than Mydeimos expected when he finally opened his eyes.

Mydeimos thrusted up into Phainon’s hand at the same time he broke the distance between them. Their teeth clacked together, and Phainon smiled as their lips finally met. He was warm, warmer than anything. Mydeimos grabbed onto the back of Phainon’s neck, holding him in place as the two of them kissed, licking into each other’s mouths and tasting one another.

He bit hard enough on Phainon’s bottom lip that he could taste blood, and he surged forward.

With the shift, Mydeimos was now sitting up and Phainon halfway straddled over him. It was unfamiliar, and yet just like everything else between them. A challenge, the need to bring all of themselves into this. 

With his free hand, Mydeimos reached for Phainon, first feeling him through the fabric. He was already hard, and Mydeimos palmed him just like that. The man groaned into his mouth, squeezing Mydeimos tighter in response.

Phainon beat him to the chase, impatiently pulling his chiton aside and climbing closer to Mydeimos. They breathed harshly against each other, eyes intent as Phainon brought their cocks together and wrapped his long fingers around them both. It was a heady feeling.

Mydeimos’ breath caught, and he grasped at Phainon’s shoulders, nails biting into the skin there. Phainon just nodded, pressing their foreheads together as he began to stroke them off together. 

“That’s good,” Phainon grunted. “You’re so good, Mydeimos. You’re perfect.”

Mydeimos struggled to keep his eyes open, waves of pleasure aching through his body now. There was precum dripping from the both of them, making the slide slicker than before. More than anything was the sounds of it all. Their panting, their cocks sliding together, every little noise escaping their throats.

Phainon began to thrust up into his grip, and so did Mydeimos. Finally, he removed one of his hands from Phainon’s shoulders, bringing it down to wrap around Phainon’s and join his movements. 

“Phainon,” Mydeimos groaned, pulling them both back down so Phainon was almost on top of him. He wanted more of him, his body, his warmth.

With his free hand, Phainon propped himself up with his forearm, their faces aligned just inches apart.

“Together,” Phainon encouraged, the pace of their stroking now losing its rhythm as they tumbled toward the end. “Just like that.”

Mydeimos felt the crest as it washed over him, his body jerking up as it did. It was a sweet sound as they both came, spilling over each other’s hands and pulling closer. The lines of their bodies blurred, the separation no longer there.

Mydeimos squeezed them until it hurt, overstimulated and sticky. Phainon laughed, sweat dripping from his brow as he fell down beside Mydeimos on the daybed. It wasn’t big enough for the both of them, and Phainon had to lay partly on top of him for it to work. Mydeimos thought nothing of it, still caught in the afterglow, eyes closed as he pressed closer into Phainon.

He felt boneless, his arm tossed over his eyes and the dimming light now feeling far too bright. His mind was nowhere when Phainon kissed against the curve of his shoulder and nudged him.

Mydeimos only grunted in response. 

Phainon manhandled his arm down, forcing him to open his eyes.

The other man’s face was still flushed, hair damp and skin glowing.

“What?” he snapped, though it lacked much of its usual bite.

Phainon gave a short laugh. “I should have known you weren’t the type to want care after this sort of thing.”

This sort of thing.

“Is that what you want?” 

Phainon smiled, leaning back down on the daybed. “Who knows?”

Mydeimos narrowed his eyes. 

Then, because they were side by side, because the light was fading away, because Phainon leaned closer, Mydeimos kissed him again. This time slower, and they shifted so Mydeimos could lay on top of Phainon, his weight sturdy there. 

There was no rush this time, and they took the opportunity to explore one another, to explore this new sensation. Mydeimos nosed at Phainon’s jaw, and the man tilted his head to the side to give him better access. 

He kissed underneath Phainon’s chin, against the line of his neck, below his ear. 

When he finally lifted back up, looking down upon Phainon, the other man reached up to tuck a strand of hair back behind his ear. 

“You’re beautiful,” Phainon said softly. 

Mydeimos paused. He hadn’t expected it. 

He huffed, laying back down beside Phainon, unable to handle looking at him for any longer. 

“Spare me your cheap compliments.”

He wasn’t looking, but he could sense Phainon rolling his eyes, which made him want to turn over again and push the man onto the floor. 

“Come on, let’s go to the baths. Let me clean you,” Phainon eventually said, sitting up. He had placed his hand on Mydeimos’ hip when he said so. 

It was different now.

As Phainon stood up, Mydeimos caught his wrist. He looked past Phainon, unable to meet his gaze.

“Does this . . . change things.”

His words were said like a statement, though he knew it was a question.

For a moment, silence. Then Phainon took his hand, interlacing their fingers. 

“Yes.”

Mydeimos held his breath. Then released it. He knew that Phainon was watching him, knew that this man knew him better than any other.

And so he squeezed Phainon’s hand back, allowing him to pull him to his feet. He did not protest when Phainon put his palm against the small of his back, but was silent as the man washed him in the baths. He was silent even as he guided his hands over Phainon’s skin, silent as Phainon kissed his jawline. 

And he thought of that oracle’s words and the prophesied ending of his fate.

 

~

 

A gentle breeze blew across the water, rustling the fabric splayed across their chests, their hair dancing with it. It smelled like the sea, of course it did, but today it felt different. Loose sand was swept across their bare feet, a pleasant feeling in comparison to the sharper rocks they had been stepping on to get here. 

It would have been better had they worn their sandals, but Mydeimos had pulled his off and carried them in his left hand all the way here. It was as if it were another challenge they would have had as children, and thus Phainon followed suit like he always did.

“Ow,” he ended up complaining halfway there, the bottoms of his feet sore now from the jagged rocks now scorching under the heat of the sun.

Mydeimos looked back to shoot him a glance, gave an unimpressed look, and kept walking on. “Put your shoes on if you can’t handle it.”

Phainon rolled his eyes, even though Mydeimos couldn’t see it, wondering how come Mydeimos seemed so much better equipped for the heat. 

It wasn’t much longer before they made it to a smoother downhill slope, and there just beyond it, the beckoning sea. Mydeimos unpinned his chiton and jumped into the water. Phainon huffed, following him in.

They swam through the shallow waves, hair slick and bodies pleasantly worn. They had been busier lately, and now days like this were rarer. More often than not they were in meetings, drills, and helping lead formations. Beyond the borders of their island, the calls for the Son of Gorgo to lead the charge against Nikador became louder. 

They tread through the sea, dipping underneath the waves and kicking through it to their heart’s content. Tired, the both came back to the rocky shore, lying next to one another against the warm stones. 

Their hair dried underneath the sun, though the salt remained there. 

“I’ll miss this,” Mydeimos murmured.

“You speak as if it is already gone.”

Mydeimos slowly sat up.

“I will have to face Nikador soon,” he said, looking out towards the horizon. “I cannot walk away from my fate. I don’t know how long it will take. How long we will be at war until I battle him.”

Phainon breathed in through his nose, exhaling past his lips. A gull flew overhead, crying out in song. 

It was true. Life wouldn’t be the same once they departed for war. And Phainon didn’t know how long it would be until life returned back to what it once was. There was uncertainty there.

But as long as they were together, Phainon would not curse however many years it took.

“And you still fear it?”

He felt Mydeimos stiffen, felt that wall being built back up again.

Phainon couldn’t help but smile, helplessly lost, as Mydeimos turned his head to look away. 

“I do not fear the prophecy,” Mydeimos said. To anyone else, his words would resonate as true. But Phainon could sense the tightness between the syllables. 

It was a delicate thing. To be prophesied. To be a hero upon birth. 

“You can tell me anything,” Phainon said. “You know that.”

He wrapped his hand around Mydeimos’ waist, a sturdy grounding. “I can’t solve your fears. But I can stand beside you.”

The man remained silent, and Phainon expected nothing else. 

But then Mydeimos shifted, not looking back into Phainon’s eyes, but instead turning so he could rest his head on Phainon’s shoulder.

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” Mydeimos murmured. It caught Phainon off guard, how heavy this moment suddenly was. The man’s eyes were closed, breathing steady. Around them, only the sounds of the world.

It was rare to have Mydeimos like this. Phainon knew him more than he knew himself. He knew of Mydeimos’ heart, even if the man couldn’t wear it. And so he held onto the moment. His voice was soft when he spoke.

“I love you.”

He watched Mydeimos, the slow opening of his eyes. Mydeimos said nothing, but finally turned to face Phainon.

And for just a moment, in the space between time, Phainon felt something far greater than the both of them. An overwhelming grief in Mydeimos’ gaze, an ache uncovered and laid bare before them both.

It was a short lived thought as Mydeimos pressed against him, catching his lips and grabbing on tightly to his wrists. 

Mydeimos’ reaction to being kissed, even if he had been the one to initiate it, had always been complex. As if his body was fighting itself, fluctuating between tense and giving in. Mydeimos had always had a natural aversion to vulnerability, and this was no different. 

He could tell that Mydeimos was doing this to put his mind off something, something he wasn’t willing to tell. 

Phainon pulled back ever so slightly, looking Mydeimos over. 

“Do you want this?”

Surprise was a strange thing on Mydeimos. The subtle furrow of his brow, the tighter press of his lips. 

“You said —“

“I did,” Phainon said, grabbing onto Mydeimos’ hand to hold. “And I mean it. But I’m asking you.”

Underneath it all, of course he wanted Mydeimos to say those words back. But he also wanted him to say it on his own accord.

He squeezed Mydeimos’ hand one last time before standing up, wrapping back his chiton and readjusting the golden pin holding it up at his shoulder. “I would never expect something from you that you did not desire yourself.”

He extended a hand out to Mydeimos to take. “Let’s go home.”

Mydeimos stared at him with unreadable eyes, and took his hand.

Later that night, Phainon was in his own room preparing for bed, the only light the flickering of candlefire across the walls. It was going to be an early morning tomorrow, as it seemed most days were now.

He was setting aside the formation patterns he had drawn when his door opened. It didn’t take much to guess who it was, considering there was only one person who would walk in so unannounced. The door closed behind him.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Phainon joked. “You being tired isn’t the most welcoming thing to see in the morning—”

He was interrupted when Mydeimos crossed the distance between them and kissed him with surprising force. It was so sudden that Phainon had to take a step back, blinking once before closing his eyes. Mydeimos’ strong hands were cupped around his face, holding him there as their kiss deepened.

They stumbled backwards, and Phainon fell back onto the bed when his knees hit the side of it. Juxtaposing feelings spread in his chest. The thrill of this novelty, of it being Mydeimos , and then the underlying understanding that Mydeimos was deliberately taking this with a faster pace. He grabbed a fistful of Mydeimos’ hair, pulling the man’s head backwards.

Mydeimos’ lips were glossy and swollen red, his pupils dilated. Phainon wanted to pull him closer, but he smiled instead. 

“Feeling needy?”

Mydeimos scowled, his beautiful features scrunched up. But Phainon paid it no mind, manhandling Mydeimos a bit to roll the man underneath him, though at least where his head would be on the pillows. Mydeimos had allowed it, albeit the unpleasant expression. 

Phainon laid by his side, perched up on his elbow so he could look down at Mydeimos. He rested his free hand on Mydeimos’ chest.

“What’s this about?”

“Your attempts to verbalize every emotion do little to spur me on,” Mydeimos retorted blunty.

“Your attempts to hide away do little to excite me either,” Phainon replied.

Mydeimos’ brow furrowed. He opened his mouth, then shut his lips tightly together.

Phainon smiled softly, affectionately. “Mydeimos, why are you scared?”

He could see the cracked open vulnerability then, the eventual acceptance that Phainon had seen through him.

“It’s just me,” Phainon said. “It’s just us.”

Mydeimos swallowed shallowly.

“I never . . . I never thought that I—“

“Never?”

Mydeimos frowned, his gaze complicated. “I did, but . . .”

“But what?”

Mydeimos’ head lolled to the side. “You won’t regret this, will you?”

Phainon shifted closer, grabbing one of Mydeimos’ hands and interlocking their fingers.

“Why would I regret this? Is this truly so different from what we were before? I have known for a long time that I wanted you.”

Mydeimos was still looking off to the side, but Phainon could see his reddening cheeks. Pleased with the reaction, Phainon continued.

“I thought of you often. Was it not obvious how I felt?”

“When?” Mydeimos asked in a low voice. “When did it start?”

“It was a gradual thing,” Phainon honestly admitted. “What about you?”

Mydeimos was clearly controlling his breath, forcing a steady inhale and exhale. “You knew I wanted you by my side, from the very beginning.”

Phainon smiled, squeezing Mydeimos’ hand. “That’s right. But what of these feelings?”

Mydeimos’ lips parted, but no words came out. Then, the man shut his eyes again. Phainon supposed he should have some mercy on him now.

He leaned down and kissed Mydeimos’ cheek, the side of his straight nose, his lips, his throat. 

“The first time I ever dreamed of such a thing, it was about you,” Phainon whispered into the skin of his neck. Mydeimos’ pulse was strong there.

He shifted so he was hovering above Mydeimos now, and he brought their interlaced hands up to his lips to kiss.

Finally, Mydeimos turned back to look at him.

“Stay here, stay here with me,” Phainon murmured, watching the way Mydeimos’ eyes widened. “Every moment of this, I want you to feel it. I want you to be here. It’s just us.”

Mydeimos breathed, the rise and fall of his chest heavy.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Who are you with?”

Mydeimos’ gaze sharpened, harsh words clearly on the tip of his tongue before Phainon rested a steady hand across his throat. Just holding him there, grounding.

“Who are you with?” Phainon repeated.

He could feel the dip of Mydeimos’ throat as he swallowed, and the tension there. The heat between their bodies, the touch of skin. 

The slight parting of Mydeimos’ legs.

“I’m with you.”

“Do you want this?”

Mydeimos’ hand grabbed onto Phainon’s shoulder blade, nails digging into the skin there.

“I want you.”

Then that hand softened, fingers sliding into the short hair at the back of Phainon’s neck, cupping his head. 

Phainon felt Mydeimos’ body shudder as they kissed, and he pushed the man down onto the bed, hands fumbling to undo the pin at Mydeimos’ shoulder. 

Cloth unfolded, their hands desperate to grab ahold of each other and pull closer, closer.

He kissed down Mydeimos’ body, feeling rather than seeing the coiling of muscle, and then the arching of Mydeimos’ back as he wrapped his lips around his cock.

A hand tugged at his hair, and Phainon looked back up at Mydeimos. Maintaining eye contact, he began to bob his head up and down, dragging his tongue up the length of his cock. It was warm and wet, any discomfort from the act immediately dispelled at the sight of Mydeimos’ parted lips, the flush of red that spread from his cheeks down to his neck.

He moaned around Mydeimos, acutely aware of the vibration it caused and its effects on the man. Mydeimos let out a raspy sound, like nothing Phainon had ever heard from him before, and began to rock into Phainon’s throat. 

Phainon could guess what he looked like right now, with wet lips and a glaze over his eyes. It seemed to spur Mydeimos on, who couldn’t seem to look away from Phainon’s face.

“Ah,” Mydeimos exhaled harshly, rubbing a thumb over Phainon’s cheek. Phainon pulled off, spit coating Mydeimos’ length, a line of it still connected to Phainon’s tongue. 

He began to stroke Mydeimos off, continuing to run his tongue up the head of his cock and lick the precum spilling out. It was easy enough to read the building tension in Mydeimos, and Phainon knew it from the way the man closed his eyes, completely lost in it. Body shuddering, the fingers in Phainon’s hair beginning to tremble.

Phainon pressed down, swallowing all of Mydeimos until his nose was pressed down against skin, his throat sore as Mydeimos jerked into him with a broken sound. It was exhilarating, and he held Mydeimos through his climax, taking in everything Mydeimos gave to him. 

The other man slumped back, panting heavily, and Phainon finally pulled back, coughing twice. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the taste of Mydeimos still heavy on his tongue.

Mydeimos look tired, his gaze dark underneath lowered lashes. 

“You . . .” He said slowly, an odd lilt to his voice. “Have you done that for someone else?”

Phainon lifted himself back up onto the bed, sitting over where Mydeimos was still lying. He placed a hand on the man’s hip, where those crimson tattoos were etched. “You’re my first.”

He smiled coyly. “But it’s good to know you enjoyed it that much.”

Mydeimos gave him a cold glare, then turned over on his other side to ignore him. Phainon laughed, lying down beside Mydeimos and curling an arm over him. He could tell enough by that reaction that he was Mydeimos’ first as well, though he had known that before anyways. 

He kissed Mydeimos’ nape, pressed his tongue against the skin there, pulling and biting the area. Mydeimos, as prickly as he had been a few moments ago, seemed to lean back into his touch nonetheless. Phainon continued until he had left a bruising mark there, kissing the area in apology after.

“Roll over,” Phainon murmured. “I’ll prepare you.”

Mydeimos let out something close to a scoff, though it lacked the usual bite. “Want to be on top that badly?”

“Yes,” Phainon admitted, almost helplessly. “I want you. I want to be inside of you.”

He knew for Mydeimos, it was more than pure physicality. To allow Phainon to take him, to let go in a sense of those metaphorical walls. There was an aspect of trust which Phainon desired just as much as the pure experience of their bodies together.

For a moment, Mydeimos said nothing. His only movement was the slow rise and fall of his shoulders.

Then, finally, the man relented. He rolled over onto his stomach, forearms tucked by his sides.

“Then get on with it,” Mydeimos said, face ducked down and expression hidden. His voice was quieter though, something there that Phainon wished to hold on to and protect. Even though he knew Mydeimos wasn’t someone who needed protection. He still wanted to.

Phainon laid an appreciative kiss on Mydeimos’ nape, then reached by the small table by his bed, hand groping about until finding a small vial. He had stored it there ever since that first afternoon with Mydeimos, not exactly expecting to use it, but certainly hoping so. He popped open the top, pouring some of the oil onto his fingertips.

“Just relax,” he reassured. “Keep breathing.”

“I’m not some frail maiden,” Mydeimos snapped. 

Phainon hummed in agreement, then circled a finger around Mydeimos’ rim before pushing in. 

It was warmer than Phainon had expected, and he felt his heart constrict underneath his rib cage. 

Curiously, Mydeimos didn’t seem to be too put off by this. There was of course the subtle tensing of the shoulders from such an unfamiliar sensation, but  Mydeimos had been accustomed to adapting for a long time now.

It was silent as Phainon continued, slicking Mydeimos and stretching him around two fingers now. Then he pressed his fingers up, the change in Mydeimos’ reaction enough to bring Phainon satisfaction. 

Mydeimos’ shoulders were hunched, neck bent low as his breathing became heavier, open-mouthed. Phainon continued to massage inside him, watching with wide eyes as Mydeimos began to rock against the bed underneath him.

A third finger pressed inside of Mydeimos, and the man muttered something in a low voice that Phainon couldn’t discern.

Phainon traced his free hand down the small of Mydeimos’ back. “Say that again.”

Mydeimos looked back at him, face flushed and bangs damp. “I told you to get on with it.”

Impatient as always.

And so Phainon moved closer, chest pressed to Mydeimos’ back, his hand wrapped around the man’s stomach to keep him there. Phainon had thought of this moment for so long, imagined what it would be like. And it was beyond any of that. His teeth ached from how hard he bit down, the slow press forward inside of Mydeimos tight and unbearably hot.

Mydeimos made a choked out sound, his head dropping forward and exposing his nape. Phainon grunted as he pushed his cock the rest of the way into that slicked and oiled heat, bringing his free hand to grasp onto Mydeimos’ chest. They paused there for a moment, breaths stuttered and vision spotty.

When Phainon began to move, he wished more than anything that he could see Mydeimos’ face, his expression. But the careful tension of his body, the subdued yet so clear sounds he was making, was more than enough. The slow thrusts and drag of his cock inside of Mydeimos was heady, and he found himself lost in the idea of pushing as far as he could, deeper and deeper until there was no separation.

They were tangled into one another, the knocking of their knees, the clenching of interlaced fingers and joints, Phainon’s breath hot against Mydeimos’ neck. Mydeimos had already cum once, and Phainon could tell he was coming close once again. The man began to rock back against Phainon, pushing back with force.

“I think you can . . . do better than that,” Mydeimos eventually taunted him, and Phainon gave a breathy smile from the higher pitch in Mydeimos’ tone. 

One hand now gripped onto Mydeimos’ hip, and Phainon let go of any restraint. Wet, open-mouthed kisses were pressed into Mydeimos’ throat, and Phainon thrusted deeper inside. The slick noises from their bodies meeting overruled anything else, interrupted only by the punched-out noises escaping Mydeimos.

Phainon had never heard anything like it, and he clenched his eyes shut as he panted. He pressed his forehead down between Mydeimos’ shoulder blades, losing himself in the feeling of being inside.

“Mydeimos —” he heard himself say, fractured and low, pushing himself as deep as he could into Mydeimos as he spilled inside. 

Phainon’s throat felt dry, shoulders rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. He thrust a few more times, slowly, into Mydeimos, relishing in his warmth before eventually pulling out. 

Time fluctuated like a dream, everything in slow-motion.

He vaguely was aware of Mydeimos rolling back over, cheeks painted with heat and lips wet with sheen. His cock was still hard, precum dripping from the tip. Mydeimos looked overwhelmed, but simultaneously unable to continue waiting for much longer.

They were gazing at one another. Mydeimos was laying on his back, longer hair slightly mussed, one leg drawn up and pushed to the side. As if willingly holding himself open. Phainon placed a wide palm on Mydeimos’ taut stomach, feeling the muscles there before trailing downwards to the faint line of hair.

“Feeling faint?” Mydeimos asked arrogantly, eyes shamelessly tracing the lines of Phainon’s body.

Phainon laughed, settling between Mydeimos’ thighs as if it were a natural thing to do. It made him happy to see Mydeimos more comfortable with this. “Should I leave you here to finish yourself off?”

Mydeimos scowled, almost smacking him across the head before Phainon caught his wrist. 

“Behave and I’ll give you what you want,” Phainon happily said, relishing in Mydeimos’ resulting expression.

He went ahead and lined himself back up before Mydeimos could try and hit him again, the man falling back into the sheets with a glare. Phainon’s chest warmed from the sight of it.

He leaned down and kissed the line of Mydeimos’ nose as he pushed back inside, this time easier but no less gratifying. Heat overwhelmed him, knowing that Mydeimos’ body had adapted to this, had accepted him inside. 

They kissed again, Mydeimos’ arms twining around his neck several moments later. Phainon had one arm resting by Mydeimos’ head, the other hooking underneath Mydeimos’ knee and pushing his thigh closer up to his chest. Unsurprisingly, Mydeimos was flexible, already pulling up his other leg and thumping his heel against Phainon’s lower back.

He rocked inside of Mydeimos, this new position far more intimate. Phainon had never wanted something so badly, and here it was before him. It was what he had always wanted, the only desire that truly mattered.

He was losing himself in it, inside of Mydeimos and their languid movements.

“Phainon,” Mydeimos panted, his eyes nearly closed and head thrown to the side. “You . . . You’re the only one.”

Phainon’s grip tightened like a reflex, forehead bent down to touch Mydeimos’. He wanted to feel Mydeimos fully against him, wanted to feel every moment, every second of this. Record this all to memory so he could remember it every time he looked at Mydeimos. 

“There’s no one else,” Mydeimos continued, whispering in the brief space between their mouths. “There’s only you. Only you.”

Phainon nodded hazily, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He fucked into Mydeimos deeper now, each thrust more focused. The drag of his cock inside of Mydeimos was intoxicating.

Mydeimos’ heels dug into his lower back and pulled him closer each time. The man groaned, pushing his abdomen up to meet Phainon in the middle, his cock trapped between their bodies and sliding across the slick skin of their abdomens. 

“More,” Mydeimos demanded, pleaded, and Phainon gave him everything. 

At the end of it, their lips were lingering together, and Phainon couldn’t tell their voices apart. It was low, guttural, inescapable.

They both tensed as they came to the end together, holding on so tightly to one another it hurt. Mydeimos came first, spilling between the two of them, leaving their skin sticky and wet. 

Climaxing, Phainon had pressed their mouths together again, licking inside of Mydeimos as he came. It was hard to breathe, everything a dizzy haze as they came down from the space they had been lost in. 

When Phainon opened his eyes, just barely, he saw Mydeimos still had his eyes closed, breathing heavily. Phainon allowed himself to lay atop of Mydeimos, knowing his weight wouldn’t be a bother.

He loved him more than anything. More than life itself.

After some time, Phainon slid out of Mydeimos, blinking at the wetness now spilled between Mydeimos’ legs. He put a hand underneath Mydeimos’ shoulder to help lift him up, but found himself being forcefully dragged back down onto the bed. 

“Tomorrow,” Mydeimos muttered, eyes still closed but looking somewhat disturbed by Phainon’s movement. Phainon smiled fondly at him, but didn’t get up this time.

“We left a mess, if you didn’t notice,” he said.

Mydeimos glowered, then blindly fumbled behind him with his arm. He brought back his discarded chiton, wiping it over the both of them and getting the majority of the mess cleaned up. He threw it back onto the floor without any grace.

“There.”

Phainon sighed. He figured it wasn’t worth bringing up how the actual work to be cleaned was inside of Mydeimos right now, given that Mydeimos seemed intent on falling asleep where he was. He would wait then until the man did just so before finding something to clean him with.

“Okay,” he said for the time being, leaning down to pull up the sheet resting at their feet. He covered them both with it, throwing an arm around Mydeimos’ waist.

“Mn,” Mydeimos mumbled, in the way he did as sleep was beginning to take over. Before it happened though, he managed to roll onto his side, face tucked into Phainon’s neck. Phainon smiled, memorizing the feeling of Mydeimos’ warm weight curled beside him.

Silently, sleep took Mydeimos, and Phainon watched over him as the night passed on.

 

~

 

For better or for worse, Mydeimos often found his mind wandering now in a daydream. Or rather, reality had split into two. 

It was as if a line had been split. The incoming war on the horizon, and then his life by Phainon’s side. In a sense, it made things easier to have it be that way.

After their drills and meetings and various administrative chores of the day, Mydeimos had nudged Phainon to leave the palace with him.

They traveled to the southern arm of the island by foot, where pale blue waters gurgled into an enclosed grotto. The rocks there were mossy and slippery, and they slid across their surfaces as they came inside the humid opening. 

Then came the walks along the coastline back north, stepping across rugged terrain and passing by old shepherds leading their herd of bell-wearing sheep across dusty roads. They took dinner together in one of Mydeimos’ secluded rooms, sitting on blankets by the hearth of the fireplace and plucking off cheeses and olives and meats to eat. 

Phainon was in a chatty mood, and Mydeimos was inclined to listen to him and watch the flickering of firelight in his pale eyes, the roll of words from his tongue and the line of his throat.

There was a huff of amusement.

“Are you listening to me or just admiring?”

Mydeimos gave him a soft kick across the blankets. 

Phainon came closer, one his hands on Mydeimos’ hip. “I’ll say something of you then. Make sure you listen closely.”

His voice was like the sweet melody of a lyre, the gentle laughter of lovers on the cusp of twilight. And he whispered song-like poetry onto Mydeimos’ lips.

“He seems equal to me to gods.”

Mydeimos’ eyes fell to the lingering space between them.

“That man, whoever he is, who takes his seat opposite of you and listens close to your sweet speaking and lovely laughing . . .”

Phainon smiled, exhaling a breathy sound of contentment. “Oh, it puts the heart in my chest on wings when I look for you. Even for a moment, no speaking is left in me.”

Mydeimos had never been a poet. But when Phainon sang quietly in the depths of nights, when he thought no one was listening, Mydeimos had drowsily awoken from his sleep and memorized the lilt of his voice and the beauty of his words.

And so, he murmured softly between them.

“My tongue stiffens into silence and thin fire races under my skin. A rush of blood blooms in my ears and my eyes go dark. Cold sweat holds me and my body shakes. Greener than summer grass, I am dead, or almost I seem to me. But all must be endured—”

Mydeimos let his head fall back as Phainon kissed him, closing his eyes and exhaling sharply from his nose. 

He tugged on Phainon’s hair, pulling him closer and closer until they both fell to the floor. The plates were kicked unceremoniously to the side, clattering as Mydeimos flipped them over so he was straddled atop Phainon. He licked a stripe from Phainon’s collarbone up to his jaw, then back to his lips where he could press his tongue inside.

Satisfied at the flush on Phainon’s face, Mydeimos went ahead and reached between the man’s legs, gripping around his length and already moving his hand at a merciless pace. Phainon’s body jerked up with an uncontrollable sound, the man grabbing onto Mydeimos’ wrist as if telling him to slow down.

But Mydeimos simply swatted his hand away, leaning back down to kiss Phainon and press his tongue into his sweet mouth. His breath quickened as he felt Phainon shivering underneath him, muscles tightening and loosening as pleasure built.

Mydeimos pressed his thumb at the slit of Phainon’s cock, feeling beads of precum oozing there. Breathlessly, he smiled against Phainon’s lips.

“Where was all that composure from before?”

Phainon cursed before he surged forward, their noses bumping together and lips swollen red. 

“That’s good,” Mydeimos said between their kisses. “You should see what you look like right now.”

It didn’t take much longer before Phainon came, and Mydeimos watched intently as Phainon fell apart under his hand. There was something undeniably alluring about it, the way Phainon’s lips were parted and eyes squeezed tightly shut, the sounds he made.

Mydeimos, unable to stop himself, began to undress them both, this time pushing them back down to lay on their sides.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Phainon laughed, voice a bit hoarse, but kicking his leg in between Mydeimos thighs. “Insatiable.”

Desire and the need to have Phainon’s skin upon him spilled over, tumbling and reaching and never ending. He didn’t respond, only rocking himself against Phainon’s thigh and placing his palm against the man’s taut stomach. Fingers exploring, feeling the chiseled muscles and bones, warm and strong, honey-like and everything between.

Finally, Mydeimos panted out quiet words. Phainon leaned closer to hear him, kissing against his cheek first.

“Again,” Mydeimos said.

Phainon nosed against his cheek in question.

Still grinding against Phainon’s leg, frustrated and flustered, Mydeimos looked anywhere but at Phainon’s expression.

“Speak to me once more.”

There was a moment of Phainon processing what he had said, but Mydeimos felt the moment that Phainon had understood. Felt his smile against his cheek, the way his thigh pushed up against his cock.

“I am penetrated by your love,” Phainon whispered like a prayer, and Mydeimos tucked his face into the crook of the man’s shoulder, unable to bear how deeply the sound of Phainon’s words affected him. “How I yearn to drink from your sweetened throat and the wine you bleed.”

Mydeimos kissed Phainon’s throat to distract himself, his nails clawing into the man’s arms as if to find some bearings.

“Under waning summer light you fall into my arms. I sing to you, drifting, fading, into slumber and dreams.”

He thrusted against Phainon’s leg, following the sound of the voice that whispered against his hair. The man grabbed his waist, pulling him at each movement and making the friction harsher.

Mydeimos bit down on Phainon’s shoulder as he came, everything becoming warm and hazy and blurred. Breathing in, he took in Phainon’s scent, heady from sex and sweat. Phainon was still kissing against his head, tracing his fingers across Mydeimos’ shoulder blade.

After some time, Mydeimos finally lifted his head, his eyes already narrowed.

Phainon’s grin was one of deep and slowly spreading delight. 

 “I thought you found poetry dull,” Phainon commented with a playful gleam in his eyes. “I’ve learned something new today.”

“Shut up,” Mydeimos said, pushing Phainon’s sweat damp hair off his forehead.

A particularly strong wave of feelings swelled in Mydeimos, caught anew by the sight of Phainon nude and handsome, so disheveled from lovemaking and equally as vulnerable. 

Phainon, kind and fair and honorable. Mydeimos wasn’t the only person drawn to him, the light that seemed to radiate from him. The fire behind Phainon gave a warm glow, sweeping over the man beautifully. Mydeimos rubbed the pad of his thumb over Phainon’s cheek.

It was difficult to not dream of this being for forever. Growing old together. A kingdom together.

“What’re you thinking about?” Phainon asked finally. 

Mydeimos steadied his breath, sliding his hand down to cup Phainon’s neck.

“. . .  You.”

Phainon hummed happily.

“More than you already do?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re the one who got off on me-“

Mydeimos knocked a loose fist against Phainon’s head, scowling. But Phainon just laughed, hearty and deep, wrapping his arms tightly around Mydeimos and rolling them over again. 

And Mydeimos let him, his heart swelling as he relished in Phainon’s showing of love. He was smiling when Phainon pressed their foreheads together, now laughing himself.

 

~

 

It was after a particularly tense council meeting, more so than usual, that Mydeimos found himself walking with his mother on the northern tip of the island, near the more forested areas. They had taken up the afternoon with hunting a pack of wild boar that had been trampling through the smaller farms in the area, enough to raise complaints and the need for someone to address it. And so silently they tracked them together, carrying bows with them with barbed arrowheads.

Another request had come for Mydeimos to join the war effort. It was not commanded of him, but requested, offered. Promises of glory and victory, all to match the prophecy that came with it. And yet Mydeimos had not answered it yet, just as he had done before. 

If it were any other matter, he would have. Without question.

But in that moment, when the councilmen had read out that letter, Mydeimos had looked to Phainon.

Perhaps in another life, one where he had never met Phainon, he would have already met his death by now. There would be nothing else tying him to this world. Nothing but his title and his honor. 

And yet now he weighed those two against Phainon, and found himself unable to give up the latter. Unable to give up this life, this daydream, that he had created.

They were crouched silently behind the brush, and Gorgo’s keen eyes watched carefully as one of the boars they had been tracking curved left of its group, isolating itself to take a drink of water by a puddle. Mydeimos instead watched his mother.

Her oval face had new lines in it at the corners of the mouth, but the hair was still like polished bronze. 

Quietly, smoothly, Gorgo pulled an arrow from the quiver at her hip. She led the nock to the string, arm raising her bow to her cheek. Mydeimos didn’t watch the boar, instead noting his mother’s even expression as she sighted the arrow.

Then the string slipped past, the arrow whistling through space until the boar cried out once, stumbling forward and falling to its side. The arrow had lodged itself through its throat. In the distance, there was rustling and the gentle stampede of the rest of the herd running away. Gorgo let out a calm breath, lowering her arms. 

“That’s one,” she said, and Mydeimos followed her deeper into the wood.

They began to trail the rest of the boar, stepping carefully over overgrown roots and slick leaves from last night’s rain.

“Your mind is off in the clouds,” she eventually commented, giving him a sidelong glance.

“Speaking isn’t attuned for a hunt,” he said in response.

She gave him a knowing smile, stopping where she stood and taking a deep breath, as if taking in the earthy scent of the forest.

“Then we can take rest here and speak freely.”

Gorgo gave a look around the expanse of trees around them. “It’s a shame that you were separated from our home so early on. Do you remember it at all? Castrum Kremnos?”

Mydeimos rested the end of his bow on the ground. “In fragments.”

“A city of marble and bronze,” Gorgo said, and she closed her eyes as if she were picturing it in her mind. “I can still hear the bells that used to welcome us home. Our people.”

“I remember the blood,” Mydeimos said truthfully. Most of his life before that night was a blur. Moments stitched together, some of which he wasn't sure were true or not. But he did remember the blinding carnage of that night when the city walls were breached. 

Gorgo opened her eyes.

“Yes. And I remember holding you when we sailed to this island. I remember the way you couldn’t fall asleep. So afraid that I wouldn’t be there when you awoke.”

She stepped closer to him.

“I will not presume to question you on why you hide from your fate. But I know something is amiss for you to do so,” Gorgo said calmly, her expression rather flat. There was no anger there, no disappointment. It just simply was.

“I know my son well enough to sense when something is wrong. Perhaps it is my failing to not pry it from you. But that has never been my nature.”

Mydeimos wondered how long she had known something was wrong. 

“You cannot run forever. But you can choose when to face it. The decision is yours, Mydeimos.”

She rested her hand upon his.

“But the longer you delay, the longer you deny your place in this prophecy, the more lives that are lost to senseless violence. Innocent, good people. That night, I too remember the cries of our people. The blood and flesh that stained the earth. Nikador will not wait idly for you to take his life. He will conquer and bleed this world until you face him.”

Mydeimos slowly took her hand into his own.

“Have you ever thought fate to be unfair?” he asked.

“Unfair to whom?” she answered.

A part of Mydeimos wanted to smile. Indeed, unfair to whom?

Mydeimos knew his own life meant little compared to how many would be saved. And yet his life was now intertwined with another’s. One whom Mydeimos held above all else. 

Unfair to whom?

“I do not command you because you are my child. You are my Mydeimos. But I say this because I have been where you stand today.”

Gorgo squeezed his hand.

“Part of being a king is sacrificing who you are. That is the price we must pay.”

 

~

 

Months later, the sound of horns rang through the night, a deep bellowing cry marking the alarm of an invasion. 

They had been in bed together when they jostled awake, Phainon first and then Mydeimos.

A thundering storm with billowing rains had helped mask their boat’s arrival, and Mydeimos only found out in the aftermath that they had scaled the walls closest to the palace, a quiet operation until they had been caught. Their sole intention was to take the palace without raiding through the streets. They had wanted to cut off the head first.

But they had brought four hundred of them, armoured and carrying shields and swords. It was a whirlwind of battle and thundering charges, all within the walls of an enclosed palace. 

On each of their shields was a crimson lance. It was the same as all those years ago. The mark of Nikador’s armies.

Mydeimos did not remember the beginning of it, perhaps just of the rush of soldiers into the inner halls of the palace, before their own had the time to come and defend the crown. He had carried a spear and Phainon a sword, the two that had been in his room. 

Reality became vivid when a soldier had nearly crashed into them from the side, and Mydeimos watched as Phainon defended himself in instinctual reaction. 

His sword had driven through the man’s navel, cutting through him until there was an arm’s gash across his flesh. The man groaned as he fell to his knees, crumpling forward as his hands clutched at his spilling blood and innards. 

Mydeimos saw the odd, horrified, and detached mist that seemed to cloud Phainon’s eyes, the immediate crushing realization of what he had just done. That he had taken a life for the first time.

But there was no time to linger, and the soles of their feet were stained with blood as they cut through the soldiers that stormed against them. 

The tip of Mydeimos’ spear crushed through helmets and bone alike, sweeping and thrusting and piercing. There was a frenzied adrenaline, and Mydeimos’ heart was frozen in the memories of Castrum Kremnos’ fall.

It wasn’t much longer until their numbers became more even, and Nikador’s soldiers were beginning to be pushed back. And yet Mydeimos had still not seen her, and his breathing became more frantic. His mother should have been here, at the great hall where the battle was fiercest. 

A hand clutched his shoulder, almost so hard as to bruise him. Mydeimos’ eyes shot up to see Phainon there.

“Go,” Phainon shouted over the sound of screams and weapons biting. “Find her!”

Once, many years ago, when they had first come to this place, Gorgo had walked Mydeimos through these halls. She had held his smaller hand in his own, pointing out the tapestries on the walls and the mosaic tiling, telling him the stories of this place and island.

“I don’t want to live here,” Mydeimos had said quietly, tired and miserable. He still dreamed of the man he had killed. “I want to go home.”

Gorgo had knelt on her knees so they were face to face, and gathered both his hands into her own and kissed them.

“One day,” she promised. “One day we will go home. Together.”

He found her in the halls leading to the courtyard. There were twenty bodies, of Nikador’s soldiers, strewn across the floors. She had faced them single-handedly, with no shield, no armor.

One man remained standing, with a cloak that touched his shins. The general then who had led this attack.

Mydeimos’ footsteps echoed when he entered the hall. The general turned around at the noise. But Mydeimos had only seen his mother, who was standing on one knee, panting, eyes nearly closed. 

Deep slashes littered her chest, her stomach, her arms.

Then, she collapsed.

“It’s you,” the man remarked, uncaring of his mother’s body.

Mydeimos’ fury was blinding, and he saw nothing but death when he lunged forward. He would carve this man and leave his body to rot.

There was an exchange of weapons, a parry and a sidestep, before Mydeimos kicked the man back and thrusted his spear into his chest.

It crushed into the man like breaking stone, and Mydeimos watched the way the general stumbled backwards with a disbelieving look.

“It really is you,” he coughed, almost looking satisfied.

Mydeimos was still holding on to the spear’s shaft, and he jerked it to the right and watched the man twist in pain with a shout.

“Prince Mydeimos,” the general laughed breathily, his teeth coated in red. “Did you truly think you were safe? That we wouldn’t find you?”

This is your fault.

Mydeimos pulled his spear, the tip of it catching on one of the man’s ribs. He forced it out anyways, his hatred nothing but burning as flesh and bone splintered. 

He threw the broken body of the general to the side, stepping over his feet as he walked towards his mother.

Mydeimos blinked hard, blood pouring from the crown of his skull from his injuries and blurring his vision. His legs were stiff, and he had to nearly drag them across the floor to reach her side.

“Mother,” he hoarsely called out, breathing shallow. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

She was broken across the floor, dark eyes still open. He picked her up into his arms, pushing back the bloodied hair slick across her face. 

His throat burned, and fire burst between his teeth. He was unknowing of the sounds which escaped his lips as he looked upon her dead body.

“Mother,” he choked again, pressing his forehead upon her cheek.

He was late, he was too late.

Bitter hatred rose in him alongside the cutting of grief. His chest felt as if it were about to burst, his fury splintering through his ribs and flesh.

His slippery fingers ran across the wounds which had bled her open, and he understood the pain of death. Of loss.

The dream was broken. The illusion that this war would wait for him. That this was a choice.

Behind, there were footsteps approaching.

Breathing heavily, Mydeimos turned his head, wondering if this would be another he would tear open with his hands. 

But then those footsteps came to an erupt halt. His vision focused, and Mydeimos saw him standing there in the doorway.

Phainon let out a broken sound, a step backwards as if having to catch himself. In a way, she had been his mother too.

Mydeimos’ hateful gaze was subdued, and his features trembled. 

“Oh, Mydeimos,” Phainon whispered, and he was coming closer now, stepping over the blood and the gore.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Mydeimos wished to say. ‘Is this how you will look when it is my body broken upon the ground?’

He said none of it, utterly unable to speak as Phainon kneeled beside him, tears welling in his eyes. 

The guard was coming to the hall now, skidding to a stop as they witnessed the scene before them.

Mydeimos let his head fall to rest by her throat, where her warmth was quickly fading.

Distantly, he could feel one of Phainon’s hands across his back, fingers touching above where his scar was.

He did not know how much time passed, how much longer he had knelt there unable to move.

“Your Majesty,” one of the guards hesitantly and softly said. “King Mydeimos.”

It was Phainon who looked up first at her words, confused, and then with slow, brutal realization.

“What are your orders, my king?”

Mydeimos was still pressed against his mother, breathing in the last of her scent. 

Phainon stood, his fingers lingering on Mydeimos’ shoulder.

“The king orders that whatever remains of the enemy be found and brought into the cells for interrogation. Bring the citizens closer to the palace where aid will be dispersed for any affected, and send messengers for those living beyond the city gates. The bells must be rung to signal the death of the queen, and the appointment of the new king. Tell the people the king will address them once these things are finished.”

The guards bowed not to Phainon, but to Mydeimos, before they left.

Slowly, eventually, Phainon cupped Mydeimos’ jaw. And Mydeimos finally shifted to look at him.

Phainon said nothing, but his eyes said enough. 

He placed her body down gently, sliding his fingers across her eyelids so they closed.

Her body was stained in blood.

It could not be undone.

“Come here,” Phainon whispered, guiding Mydeimos’ head closer to him.

Mydeimos pressed his cheek against Phainon’s stomach, holding him close as tears split through the blood caking his skin. Phainon let him, cradling his head between his hands and gently running his fingers through his hair.

Echoes of ringing bells travelled through the halls, and Mydeimos was crowned in blackened blood.

 

~

 

The funeral rites lasted three days.

Mydeimos had knelt in black robes as his mother’s body was eaten by flames, before her ashes were gathered and placed in an urn.

His tears had long since dried, and he made no sound as the people wept. He had cut his hair and placed it with her body, the locks he had kept in a braid, to honor her. 

That night, once the rites had finished and the last meal had ended, Mydeimos went back to that temple which he had not stepped foot in for years. The oracle had welcomed him back with mockery.

He did not ask for his fate. But he did ask her, he begged her for another answer. And she had given it willingly.

He hadn’t expected it to feel like this. Hollow, and so silent. Like a knife had been brought to his belly, gutting him empty.

But perhaps he should have known what she would say. That there was no other path.

“Run and hide. Go ahead. But the gods have spoken. Should you continue to deny your fate, the King of Strife shall slaughter everything you hold dear, until your madness implores you to take action. Your mother was the first blood. Your lover will be next, and finally the people of Castrum Kremnos.”

He had only ever shied from his fate for one reason. One person. And yet now he was faced with the reality that even that would be taken from him should he deny this ending for himself. 

The life he dreamed of with Phainon, it had always been impossible. And fate would punish him no matter his path.

He departed the temple quietly, looking out at the cliffs and the sea behind it. He could taste the salt in the wind, feel it against his hair. 

The sun was beginning to set.

Perhaps it was easier now that there wasn’t the illusion of choice. He would not risk Phainon’s life before his own. 

For Phainon was not his other half, but instead the entirety of him. His blood, his heart, his head. All of him.

It was better this way. One life was little in comparison. His life for his people. His life for Phainon. 

Mydeimos gave one last look back at the temple. It would be the last time he ever gazed upon its walls. 

A council meeting was held that night. The men and women there were itching from the inaction, Mydeimos could tell, despite their forced politeness and submissiveness. 

The Queen’s death could not go unanswered.

Phainon stood on the opposite side of the table, arms crossed and silently listening on as the council began to detail the entirety of the night’s losses. Not only that, but news from the main lands.

“Our island is not the only city which has faced losses. Nikador’s armies are expanding, and they have brought ruin across the lands. The remaining cities are rallying, and they rally behind your prophecy, King Mydeimos,” a councilman spoke gravely. “They call on you to lead them. They call on you to ride to war, and end this era of strife once and for all.”

The men and women around the table nodded and hummed in agreement, a sort of fire sparking to life.

“King Mydeimos,” another said, breaking through the silence. “What say you to these demands?”

He stood now where his mother had. He knew not the expression he wore. Slowly, his eyes lifted across the table, where Phainon was standing.

There was no fire there in his gaze. Only a muted sense of undeniable sadness.

Time warped in all directions, and Mydeimos was trapped in a trance.

If he ran from his fate, then all would be destroyed. The illusion that he could avoid this, that he could remain on this island with Phainon and create a new life was shattered. If his people were to live, if Phainon were to live, he would have to face Nikador. It was the only way.

Mydeimos commanded it now.

“It is war.” 

And the council pounded their firsts onto the table in their agreement, roaring their approval of the decision, claiming his victory already. Their celebration, their fervor for war; it passed through Mydeimos in muffled waves.

He had not looked away from Phainon, who still stood there quietly. He had not the expression of victory.

Messengers were sent across the narrow sea to announce their involvement in the war, that Mydeimos would finally take up arms and fulfil the prophecy which so many had awaited. They had made their own plans to depart in the next few weeks, once all the preparations were made.

He had avoided his own bedchambers, instead following Phainon into his. Phainon’s bed had always been too soft for his liking, but tonight he didn’t notice it. 

The light from the oil lamp was dim, likely to burn out soon. Phainon lifted the blanket and came to lie next to Mydeimos, first coming onto his side so he was looking over him.

Mydeimos glanced up as Phainon touched against the blunt spot where he had cut his hair, likely just three fingers wide.

“I suppose we always knew this day was coming,” Phainon said, soft enough to not break whatever quiet space this was.

“Yes,” Mydeimos murmured.

He reached his hand up to interlace fingers with Phainon.

“And you . . . You will sail with us?”

Phainon gave a surprised look. “Of course. What else?”

“It will be war,” Mydeimos said. “You will . . . There will be blood.”

Phainon looked down at him, exhaling once. “I know that. And I will fight by your side.”

It was odd to feel both guilt and relief, Mydeimos thought.

“You were horrified,” Mydeimos truthfully said. “When you killed for the first time.”

He had seen it on Phainon’s face. And he had known what he had felt, as if a memory of his own had been reawakened.

“I was,” Phainon admitted, leaning down so he could rest by Mydeimos’ side more comfortably. “And yet I have no intention of letting you go alone. We do this together.”

Together. The end of their time together would be filled with horror and death.

He wished then that they were not in these confined walls, and instead under the stars where the wind could touch them. Where he could be reminded of where it all began.

Mydeimos let his head fall to the side, so he could see Phainon closer. 

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Phainon said, smiling. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Mydeimos’ cheek. The light of the oil lamp was beginning to fade, pulling the curtain shut on this night.

Mydeimos allowed his eyes to close, their limbs tangled together as darkness settled.

He was exhausted, and yet an overwhelming tightness ate at his core, unrelenting and unwilling to let any part of him, body or mind, rest. He felt undeniably trapped, with nowhere to go. The space behind his eyes ached and Mydeimos tried to close them. 

His heart only started to beat faster in almost alarm, and he opened his eyes again. 

Phainon rubbed a hand over his bare chest, whispering.

“It’s okay. I’m right here.”

Mydeimos heard the underlying meaning, what Phainon thought he was so scared of. 

‘I’m alive. My heart is still beating. I am not your mother.’

But Mydeimos knew that. And he would make sure that it stayed that way for many, many years to come.

He wished more than anything that Phainon knew the truth, that he could tell him and finally be released of the solitude he had built around himself. 

“Who are you with, Mydeimos?”

Mydeimos tried to steady his breath, somewhat aware of how Phainon was breathing deeply alongside him, as if giving him something to rely on.

“I’m with you,” he eventually said, and his voice didn’t sound like his own. It was as if he were hearing himself speak from another room.

Phainon cupped his cheek, his palm warm.

Mydeimos knew the sensation of his fingertips, the bend of each of his knuckles, even the crookedness of his ring finger. Even in the darkness, he knew this.

“I love you,” Phainon spoke against his neck.

Mydeimos held him closer, yet remained silent.

They laid there together, Phainon’s breaths warm and gentle until he eventually fell asleep.

“I know.”

 

~

 

They would be sailing to war in two weeks, joining the other city states that had already assembled to oppose Nikador. It was a strange atmosphere across the island, of preparations and farewells, weariness for war and the knowing that death would accompany it, but also the unspoken hope that soon this would be over. That the Kremnoan people could finally return home. For many children born on the island, their city had just been a place of myth, an abstract that none of them had seen.

Mydeimos was acting like a king, but not like himself. Phainon looked at him now on the other side of the hall they were in, reading over the reports sent by the messengers overseas responding to their upcoming arrival and scribbling notes on the sides. They would be dispersed to the rest of the council tonight, but Mydeimos had wanted to go over them first. 

Ever since Gorgo’s death, Mydeimos had been like this. Quiet. Closed off.

Whenever he spoke now, he did it in detached commands. Even in private, when it was just them, Mydeimos was restless. As if something were eating away at him from the inside.

Perhaps to the common person, perhaps even to his council, Mydeimos was simply acting as a king. He had taken up his destiny and was no longer hiding away. But Phainon watched him, watched everything.

It was acceptance. But not of a victorious destiny, but as if accepting defeat.

Phainon had always known Mydeimos dreaded his prophecy, but had never fully understood. Perhaps he thought he had many years ago, but now no longer.

He had convinced himself that Mydeimos feared becoming a king and the sheer weight that title held, that Mydeimos did not see himself as a king crowned in bloodshed. 

But there was something different. Just last night, while they lay in bed, Mydeimos had pretended to fall asleep. And then, minutes later when Phainon had been half-awake, Mydeimos had sat up silently, leaning against the window sill and looking out.

If he closed his eyes, he could still trace every line of Mydeimos’ body. He could hear the sound of his heels upon stone, the touch of his fingers, the taste of his lips.

He had known Mydeimos was afraid. But he had allowed himself to believe a story that perhaps both he and Mydeimos had created. And now, in the back of his subconscious, was this dread he had never felt before.

He knew Mydeimos. He knew him. 

Mydeimos was grieving. Of course he would be. But this . . . this grief was more than that for his mother. 

A cold, sharp feeling spread up his spine. He stood up from the wooden bench he had been on, coming over to where Mydeimos was, unable to handle any more silence.

Won’t you smile again?

He plucked one of the papers off the table, reading it over before giving a sidelong glance to Mydeimos. The concentrated expression, but also the underlying and hidden look of wear. He placed the paper back down and rested his hand on Mydeimos’ shoulder, squeezing there.

“Take a break before the meeting. You’ve been sitting here for hours now.”

Mydeimos gave him a silent look, nodding once as he gathered all the reports together into a single stack.

They ended up back in the reading room, sitting together on the daybed that they had first kissed upon. It brought back pleasant memories even beyond that, of days when Phainon had poured over books in here while Mydeimos tugged at his shins to go outside instead. But now Mydeimos sat aimlessly against the back of the daybed, seemingly lost in thought. 

He was almost unsure Mydeimos would say a thing at all, until Mydeimos’ fingers brushed against his. Their eyes met, and under the fading light of the sun, Mydeimos’ golden eyes seemed more akin to a deep amber.

“Tell me a story,” he said. 

Phainon had first thought to tease Mydeimos for such a request, after all, he usually would. But he had the sense that right now, instead of arguing back, that Mydeimos would instead give the matter up. And so he began to speak.

“I read once that the sun god fell in love with a human. As he was sitting in the sky, utterly bored with the mundanities of daytime, he looked down and saw a beautiful young man accomplished in all things athletic. The sun god had never seen such a face paired with physicality and was enamoured, quickly descending from the clouds to greet him.”

Phainon tangled their fingers together, feeling the calluses on Mydeimos’ skin.

“They spent all their days together then, whether it be swimming in the river or eating out of each other’s hands. The sun god, ever the more experienced, taught the man how to sing, how to play the lyre, even how to tell prophecies.”

He squeezed Mydeimos’ hand. 

“But one day, the sun god and the man decided to play a game, each of them throwing the discus to see who would win. The man was athletic, but of course the sun god was much stronger. And so when he made his throw, the discus cut through the skies themselves. Amazed, his lover ran after it to give chase, hoping to catch it. But instead the discus rebounded, cutting through the man. The sun god, devastated with grief, tried all he could to save his lover. But there was nothing that could be done.”

Mydeimos tilted his head. “Then what?”

“The sun god turned his lover into a flower. One that still grows today.”

Mydeimos huffed. “That’s not a very happy story.”

Phainon smiled. “You only asked me to tell you a story. You should have specified if you wanted a happy one.”

Mydeimos twisted Phainon’s fingers some, and despite the momentary pain, it made Phainon feel a sense of relief having Mydeimos at least react to something as he usually would. 

“What’s even the point of a story like that? To not throw yourself in the line of a god’s discus?” Mydeimos questioned.

Phainon rolled his eyes in amusement. “Maybe if you read a little more you’d understand.”

He leaned in to kiss Mydeimos before whatever expression was forming there took place. Then, he rubbed a hand on the man’s waist, knowing just where to uncoil the man to make him relax. Slowly, subtly, Mydeimos’ body softened, and he leaned into the kiss as well.

Phainon ran his palms over the lines of Mydeimos’ body, feeling the strength there but also his warmth, the undeniable parts of him which were real and alive and human. He pressed another quick kiss to Mydeimos’ lips, then his cheek before pulling back a small bit.

Mydeimos’ hands were already resting on Phainon’s abdomen, like they usually did when he was expecting more. An already heatening gaze which Phainon took a moment to admire. After a few seconds of Phainon staying silent, Mydeimos frowned and gently knocked their foreheads together. Phainon had to resist the urge to laugh, but nonetheless felt his heart sweeten.

This was more familiar.

“Lay on your stomach,” he said. He tipped over the oil lamp on the window sill as Mydeimos did so, slickening his fingers as he pulled the base of Mydeimos’ chiton up. 

Mydeimos made a stifled sound when Phainon pushed inside of him, his fingers clawing into the cushions on the daybed. Leaning down, Phainon wrapped his arms underneath Mydeimos’ chest, their bodies pressed so close together it was difficult to tell where the lines separating them began. He slowly rocked into Mydeimos, taking his time and feeling every movement, every part of the man underneath him. 

Phainon pressed a kiss on Mydeimos’ cheek bone, watching with heavy eyes the way Mydeimos’ expression fluctuated between tension and pleasure. His stuttered breaths, the reddening flush across his cheeks, his eyes pressed closed. It was almost too much to bear.

“Mydeimos,” he breathed. “‘Mydeimos, look at me.”

Mydeimos’ eyes flickered open, gazing back at him with just parted lips. There, upon his long eyelashes, were just the faintest of tears. 

It was almost unnoticeable. But Phainon would have noticed, no matter what. They reminded him of how Mydeimos looked that night, when he had been kneeling in his mother’s blood.

Like he was grieving.

A strange ache gripped at his stomach, and Phainon fought the urge to fall into it. Not now, not like this.

Phainon instead kissed him again, tasting him and whispering against his lips.

“I love you,” he kept repeating, feeling the way Mydeimos shook underneath him, his brows drawn up together tightly. 

He allowed Mydeimos to raise his hips just slightly, enough to where Phainon could reach down to tug at his untouched and leaking cock. Mydeimos finally choked out a sound, beautiful and rough and just like how Phainon had wanted it to be.

Mydeimos lifted his own hand to grab Phainon’s hair, tugging his head closer and clenching his fingers tightly. 

Gone were the days of the simplicity, of carefree laughter and chasing each other through the rolling hills. Even now, even like this, there was something more.

I want you to rely on me. I want you to trust me.

Phainon wanted to whisper it, wanted to breathe those words into Mydeimos but couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

You told me once that you needed me. 

And so instead they only rocked against one another, panting and moaning in the small space between their lips. 

Whatever it is that troubles you, whatever it is that you’re hiding from me, I want you to tell me on your own. 

Phainon bit down hard, his jaw almost sore as his hips began to stutter against Mydeimos, starlight sparking behind his eyes.

Have I not always been there by your side? Have I not done what I swore to you all those years ago?

Distantly, Phainon heard Mydeimos repeating his name, saw Mydeimos’ dazed and foggy eyes.

They came together, feet curling together and bodies drawing taut. Mydeimos’ grip in his hair was almost painful, and Phainon bit down on the space between Mydeimos’ neck and shoulder as some kind of repayment. Heavy breaths, skin slick with sweat as they finally collapsed down on the daybed. Phainon rolled over so he was facing back up, though his eyes were closed as he basked in the daydream like afterglow.

Mydeimos’ face was tucked against his arm, and Phainon could feel his small breaths there on his skin. Without much thought, Phainon rested one of his hands on Mydeimos’ back, at the center of his spine where that scar was. He could feel the planes of its scarred tissue even through the thin fabric there, and his fingers traced its edges for some time while Mydeimos caught his breath.

Mydeimos’ eyes were closed, and Phainon wished he could leave him just like that. After all, he hadn’t been sleeping as much lately. Perhaps like this he could finally find some rest. His hand moved to slowly weave through Mydeimos’ thick hair, fingertips against his scalp. Mydeimos subtlety shifted, leaning ever so closer, and Phainon smiled.

“We should probably wash up before the meeting,” Phainon suggested with a soft laugh.

And then Mydeimos opened his eyes, pushing himself back up to a seated position, whatever softness from before hardened over. 

Phainon raised himself back up too. Now sitting just behind him, he kissed Mydeimos’ bare shoulder once. His skin didn’t feel as warm as Phainon remembered it to be. He tried to ignore the twisting sensation inside his chest. But even when he spoke, the words came out in a strange tone.

“Come. Let’s go to the baths and I’ll clean us.”

Mydeimos sat there for a moment, silent, and Phainon watched as his shoulders just began to tense.

“I’ll get ready on my own,” Mydeimos finally said with a strange, complicated expression of weariness. He stood up, grabbed his himaton off the floor and unceremoniously wrapped it around his shoulders. It covered just enough to get him through the hallways without being noticed. “There’s still some things I need to look over before.”

Still on the daybed, and confused by Mydeimos’ strange behavior, Phainon tried to hold on to his wrist. “You’re sure? I can help you –”

“I’m fine.”

Phainon blinked. Then took back his hand slowly.

Mydeimos’ eyes flickered between them once, twice. As if he finally realized how sharp his tone had just been. Then he sat back down, grabbing ahold of Phainon’s hand once more. But it didn’t feel right.

After a moment, Phainon finally asked.

“What’s wrong?” 

It was barely scratching at the surface of what Phainon wanted to say, wanted to ask, but it was all he could muster at that moment. 

Mydeimos said nothing at first, and then in a controlled tone:

“Nothing. I just need to get there earlier. It’ll be quicker on my own.”

Phainon hesitated.

Because he knew Mydeimos was lying. But because he still wanted to believe in him.

You’re terrified of something I don’t know about.

“Okay. I’ll see you at the meeting then.”

“Okay.”

Mydeimos pressed a chaste kiss to his temple before standing again, and Phainon watched as he left the room, feeling sick to his stomach.

 

~

 

He found Phainon belly up in the sand, arm thrown over his eyes and looking the most inelegant Mydeimos had ever seen him. It was halfway through the night, the sea just at the beach’s edge a never ending black, but the clear sky above allowed for the stars to shine bright enough. 

He hadn’t seen Phainon all day, the both of them equally as occupied but seemingly in different areas. They had seen less of each other all in all these days. 

Phainon hadn’t been in bed when Mydeimos finally returned, late as it was. He hadn’t been anywhere. And so Mydeimos had gone looking for him. He had half given up by the time he saw something in the sand.

Mydeimos stood over him, the whisping winds across the water pushing and pulling against his longer hair. 

Phainon was drunk. Drunker than even that day of the games. It wasn’t a common occurrence, and Mydeimos’ throat tightened, eyes clouding up with something indescribable. Regardless of the wind, the air was still warm, but his limbs were still numb and heavy. 

At fifteen, they had snuck together into the palace’s cellars, finding the amphorae there and drinking their wines. Phainon had spat it out at first, face coiling up in disgust. Mydeimos had swallowed it down with a haughty look, regardless of its once-then foul taste. By the end of the night, they had both collapsed by the stairs, faces red and stomachs aching. Mydeimos had thought of a memory before falling asleep beside Phainon that night. The image of Phainon in the water, weightless, shafts of light across his face where it squeezed through the cracking of clouds. Bubbles clinging to his skin and the pull of his smile.

Those days were gone now, just as fleeting as his own life was.

His heart was unsettled, undeniably affected by this. Even in the face of war, of what was to come, he wished for Phainon to remain untouched. Safe and cloaked away. 

“We’ll share a heart,” Phainon had told him once.

And thus Phainon, in some sense, was all that tied Mydeimos to this world. To who he was beyond the fated Son of Gorgo. 

His life.

But clearly Phainon had been affected. How couldn’t he be? They would be sailing off in less than four days now. And life would never be the same. Phainon knew now what it meant for blood to be shed. It was all Mydeimos’ fault.

I couldn’t even give you a peaceful life before my death.

He knelt down, pulling Phainon’s arm off his face. Even under the pale starlight, he could see the flush across his cheeks.

“Wake up,” he said, tugging at Phainon’s wrist. 

Phainon groaned, sluggishly opening his eyes. He said something that sounded vaguely like Mydeimos’ name.

“Come on,” Mydeimos said again, kneeling down and helping pull Phainon to his feet, letting the man lean on his side and hook an arm across his shoulder.

“You came for me?” Phainon half-way slurred, dragging his feet through the sand.

Mydeimos grunted, carrying nearly all of Phainon’s weight now. “Haikas.”

“Don’t call me that,” Phainon grumbled. 

He wanted to ask what was wrong, but he recalled himself refusing Phainon the same. And so he said nothing of it, instead listening to the way Phainon’s breaths matched the tune of the incoming waves. 

A year ago, they had been laying on the pelts of Mydeimos’ bed, the only glow the warm and waxing light of the hearth. Mydeimos had been gazing at the fire with half-lidded eyes, nearly about to fall asleep. His body was atop Phainon’s, his cheek pressed against the man’s bare chest. Like that, he could hear Phainon’s heartbeats, the steady rhythm like a drum. And Phainon’s fingers had been lazily running through his hair, at one point undoing his braid and gently scratching at the skin there. Mydeimos had fallen asleep like that.

Slowly, after some time, Mydeimos could feel Phainon beginning to sober, his feet no longer dragging half as bad. Though, when he gave a sidelong glance, he could still see the pink in the man’s cheeks.

Phainon mumbled something, though it was completely muffled. 

“What?”

“Let’s go see the snow again one day,” Phainon said again, louder this time.

“The snow?”

“In the north. We can go north.”

Mydeimos didn’t understand what he was talking about, assuming these were just the thoughts of a drunkard.

“Fine,” he said, indulging Phainon nonetheless. 

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Phainon tugged at his arm once, rooted into place. Mydeimos was forced to stop, and they stood there by each other where the sea met the land and the night sky bled onto the world. Phainon’s hand was cold as he took Mydeimos’ into his own. 

This felt more real to Mydeimos than the last few weeks had been. 

“Mydeimos,” Phainon quietly said, breathing unsteady. “We will return from this war together. Swear it to me.”

The wind gusted by their ankles, and sand danced between their feet.

Phainon’s eyes were darker in the night, though just as clear as they had always been. Deep ocean blue. 

Don’t ask this of me.

He could do it. He could do it now. And perhaps Phainon would forgive him. 

How empty he felt then. Knowing that even now he could not utter the truth. 

The black pit was far too deep now, having been dug ever since they were children. 

If he told Phainon the truth . . . What then?

He knew now the pain of loss. Yet, nowhere close to the loss of what Phainon would be to him, and what he would be to Phainon.

Phainon would try to stop him. Or worse, he would leave.

In these dwindling, precious moments, he wished for Phainon to be there. Not in grieving, not in anger, but in what they were now.

“Tell me the truth,” Phainon said, and the waves brushed against their feet, pulling them closer to the sea.

Mydeimos couldn’t do it. It was wrong, and it was selfish, and he hated himself, and he couldn’t do it. 

“Swear that your prophecy is what you told me all those years ago.”

It wasn’t much longer now until he was with his mother. Drenched in death.

And so, until that moment, until that moment he passed from this world, he would keep the truth concealed in a dream. 

It’s better this way.

I will only hurt you at the very end.

Mydeimos lifted his head and met Phainon’s eyes. 

“I swear.”

 

~

 

In the last days leading up to their departure across the sea, Phainon observed Mydeimos with far more scrutinizing eyes. Mydeimos had been noticeably different ever since that night by the sea, when Phainon had verbalized what had been plaguing his mind. Mydeimos was attentive, and he had the sense that Mydeimos was observing him just as much as he was.

Circling about one another with keen eyes, just like they did when they fought against one another. And it felt the same now. Analyzing. Waiting to see the cracks. There was entertainment in that when it was pretend. Not like this.

The ships were ready at the port, and they would be leaving at dusk. It was an odd, restless night. And so Phainon did not sleep, and instead he was out at the cliffs, looking out into the incoming dark of the night approaching. He had only ever crossed the sea once, and it was to come to these shores. Soon, they would lay eyes on the city of Castrum Kremnos. But not without bloodshed on both sides. 

His heart beat so widely he could feel it aching against his ribs. A feverish sick. 

He had never truly doubted Mydeimos. Because Mydeimos was true. He was honorable.

And yet . . .

Phainon turned around, looking upon the temple. And then, alone, he began to walk towards it.

His feet guided him to her, as if being pulled by strings. An overwhelming sensation overtook him. A black tide, dread like the rotting of flesh.

The candles had already been lit when he found her. As if she had been waiting here all along. Waiting for this precise moment.

He could hear the cracking of her skin as she smiled at him, and he had sat opposite of her, knees cold against the floors. 

I shouldn’t be here. This is a place of princes and queens, of heroes and myth.

“And yet you found me anyways,” she said, clouded in black veils and torn fabrics, nails long and bloody at the cuticles. “I’ve been expecting you.”

She was a woman of fate, older than this temple itself. Phainon’s chest tightened.

He had never wanted a name beyond his own. Beyond standing by Mydeimos’ side. He was his own person, but, so too was his life defined by Mydeimos’. As was Mydeimos tied to him.

“You know me?” He asked, though somewhere deep down he knew it was a fruitless thing to ask.

“Phainon,” she whispered mockingly. “Yes, I know who you are. Heart of the Son of Gorgo. Deliverer of the People.”

His breath caught, and a sick uneasiness crept into his stomach. He could see the oracle’s teeth, her gnarled smile behind the black of her veil. 

“But you have come here for a reason,” she said. “So go on. Ask.”

“I-“ he started, then stopped. This didn’t seem right. And yet something far inside of him told him to say those words. There was no other way. He bit down hard, then met her gaze.

I have to know the truth.

“I wish to hear my fate.”

“Very well,” she whispered in a hiss. “But know that there is no going back.”

As if possessed, her body began to contort, bones cracking as her arms lifted up. Phainon had to stop himself from recoiling. Never before had he seen such a haunting sight.

She began to speak, her voice overlayed by multiple others, as if there were a chorus beside her.

“Stepping from the shadows is the soul who will carry the world on his shoulders. He does not begin the journey, but he delivers the homeward bound.”

The oracle’s voice cracked, breaking into something deeper.

“His hands shall be stained crimson with the blood of his beloved. For there walks the lone hero, whose dreams will be haunted by the king lost to fate’s demise.”

She collapsed forward, body heaving as if finally let go. Phainon sat there, stunned.

Her hands clutched onto the ground, nails scraping against the stones. She hissed out a laugh. 

“You see now? You see the truth?”

It took a moment.

Tangled threads slowly unraveled, and finally, Phainon understood. Riddles. Secrets. Lies.

And that question he had been hiding deep inside of himself for so many years finally was answered.

What’s wrong?

What have you to fear?

You can tell me anything.

I will protect you until my dying breath.

A black sickness welled up inside of him. He felt like he could choke on it. It was suffocating. He shook his head.

It wasn’t possible. 

Mydeimos had made him swear. A lifetime.

“You’re lying,” he forced out.

The oracle shuddered. “I pity the lover who has been deceived. All these years, and he could never find it in himself to tell the truth. Not to his mother. Not to you. But I suppose the Queen met a more merciful fate than you will.”

Shaking, he began to stand up. It was impossible. “You’re lying.”

Her veiled head lifted. “Go ask him yourself, though I know you don’t need his words to know the truth now.”

The very air had disappeared. Unable to breathe, unable to be in this room for any longer, Phainon ran away. He could hear her laughter as he escaped, as he slammed the door open and ran through those temple halls, as he finally came outside and fell to his hands and knees.

He clenched his eyes shut. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

And yet it all made sense. Why Mydeimos refused to reciprocate those words, why he feared his prophecy so deeply, why he kept him so close by his side. 

Why, even on that very first day, Phainon found him lying on that field. Escaping the truth. Escaping the reality that he would die as a result of fate’s determination.

Bitter, haunting tears spilled across his cheeks and to the ground. 

I love you.

It had been years. And Mydeimos had never said a word. He knew for all this time. He had known their fate all along and lied.

He had looked him in the eye and sworn. He had lied through his teeth.

Phainon’s fingers dug into the grass, into the cold soil. He couldn’t hear himself anymore, the aching, the searing pain.

Mydeimos would be dead soon.

 

~

 

The sun was oozing across the horizon when they set off, the fleet of ships now departing for the main lands. Their arrival would be greeted by ambassadors of the other rallying city states, and then they would be guided to the war council where the crowns and generals would meet to discuss battle.

He stood alone by the bow of the ship, the sailing quiet now that they had taken off. A lonely silence. Mydeimos held his mother’s heavy bronze-tipped spear in hand, thumb rubbing up its smooth wooden shaft. It was his now.

He glanced behind once, looking back at where Phainon was. A part of him had expected Phainon to at least be interested in the novelty of sailing after all these years. But instead the man was standing by himself, wearing an unreadable expression. Clouded eyes. 

They hadn’t spoken a word to each other since last afternoon. Even when Mydeimos had tried to find him this morning, Phainon had somehow lost him at every opportunity. 

The two of them were inherently attuned to one another, and Mydeimos was certain that Phainon was aware of his gaze. And Phainon did not look back at him, instead pushing himself up to his feet and walking down to the lower parts of the ship.

Mydeimos took an unsteady breath, wondering if he should follow. But he had never been eloquent in his words. And he feared making whatever was happening between them worse. 

Later then, when hopefully this spell had dissipated. Then he would try his hand. For now, he chose to stay where he was.

They passed by the cultivated valleys and hillsides terraced with vineyards and olive trees, rocky shores and secluded coves. Mydeimos observed it in a sense of farewell, knowing he would never see the land he grew up with ever again. 

He wished that he had gone back to those golden fields one last time, and laid there until a familiar touch awoke him.

It felt as if he were made of memories.

He finally decided to approach Phainon just past midday, by the stern of the ship where the man was sitting idly, looking over maps and drawing over them in neat lines. He did so with almost impossible accuracy given the rocking of the ship. 

It was like a deliberate move across a board, coming to sit beside Phainon. The man didn’t look up from his maps. Mydeimos had sat close enough to where their shoulders were touching, where he could feel the stiff way Phainon was holding himself.

Are you okay?

“You’ll have plenty of time to play with your maps when we land,” he said instead.

Phainon drew another pair of arrows, the movement of a troop formation. Mydeimos thought that he might not respond at all, but eventually, he spoke in a low, clipped voice.

“I’m doing it now.”

“Is the sailing not suiting you? You’ve been hiding away,” Mydeimos tried.

“I’m fine.”

If they had been younger, Mydeimos would have already confronted Phainon head first by now. Demanding an explanation, scowling and storming off until Phainon came after him. But he wanted to avoid a fight unless necessary. And so he swallowed his pride and just continued to sit there, waiting this out.

Comfortable silence was a familiarity between them, but this was something different entirely. The both of them were distinctly aware of the other, unbearably so. Whatever tension existed was just becoming more noticeable. 

“Do you have something you wish to say to me?” Phainon finally questioned, and there was no softness there in his voice. He put the maps down and finally turned to face Mydeimos for the first time that day. His lips were set in a hard line.

Mydeimos cursed the feeling of hesitation inside of himself, the way he couldn’t speak. 

But then again, despite Phainon’s tendencies in the past to be secretive as well, to hide his emotions and insecurities with a smile, he had never been like this. There was no hiding of his displeasure, just a hiding of whatever was motivating it.

“Are you . . . okay?”

Phainon then looked at him with a scrutinizing gaze, and Mydeimos couldn’t help but feel as if there was a sense of irritated disbelief in those eyes.

And for a moment, it seemed like Phainon was going to say something. There was fire in his eyes. But as quickly as it came, it withdrew. 

A part of Mydeimos, as strange as it was to see such an expression on Phainon, wished it came back. It was better than this look of indifference.

“If you don’t have anything to say, then don’t linger.” Phainon said, and it was similar to a kick in the gut. 

It must have shown on his face, as much as he didn’t want it to, because he saw the subtle shift in Phainon’s eyes. But it was brief and the man picked his maps back up to pour over.

“I’ll see you later tonight,” Phainon said, looking back down.

Mydeimos sat there for a little longer, utterly lost in whatever this was. Wanting to pin Phainon down and get a real answer out of him, and simultaneously feeling uncertain he wanted to know the truth of the matter.

His mind, so attuned now to fall for the dream, to believe in a fake truth. That this too would pass, that it was just a moment. 

As long as Phainon still wanted to be with him, even if not right now. Then it was okay. He could pretend.

He wished he could say those words, those words which he had always known, but couldn’t utter. It would be too cruel, given their shared fate of separation.

And so he only laid a hand on Phainon’s shoulder, squeezing him before taking his leave. When he looked back, Phainon still had his head down.

 

~

 

The lines of ships were met with white shores, and beyond that grassy fields where a camp had already been erected, an almost endless field of tents and flags and soldiers fluttering everywhere between. Mydeimos was given a royal welcome, and no one made mention of his delay here, though Phainon could tell there was a sense of urgency. 

He remained silent by Mydeimos’ side, alongside the other generals who would be joining them at the council meeting later tonight. Shamelessly, the other men and women stared at them as they crossed through the camp, all of them wanting to catch a glimpse of the King who would deal the final blow to Nikador. The assurance that this war meant something, that it would come to an end that didn’t mean death.

Or at least not death to them.

Once, half way through their walk, Mydeimos subtly looked over his shoulder, as if checking to make sure Phainon was still there. He didn’t return the gaze, and Mydeimos turned back.

For many years, he had been quite adept at hiding the emotions that plagued him. But this wasn’t something he could hide. 

The sight of Mydeimos nauseated him. As if a knife had been plunged into his gut, cutting across in a jagged line until blood and intestine spilled from him. Every time he looked at Mydeimos’ face, the one he used to wake beside and relish in, it was like looking into a grave. 

He heard the oracle's words over and over again, her laughter and the dark of the night as he collapsed. His weeping, the shattering of everything he had ever known, and Mydeimos’ silence. 

It was all he thought about even when they were ushered into the largest tent by the center of the camp, filled with chairs in a circled formation. At the heart, a wide table with maps of the terrains they would be hoping to cover. He was sat beside Mydeimos, completely hollowed out.

Diplomacy was no longer in discussion. Nikador had made sure of that. It was war, or be conquered. The illusion of choice was gone.

Phainon finally glanced at Mydeimos through the corner of his eye.

By the time the meeting was over, the first actions were decided upon and the pleasantries of royal introductions completed. The first battles would concern protecting the city of Okhema, which lay just to the north. Nikador’s armies had been raiding the nearby farming towns, a sure sign that they were attempting to starve the city out until they relented to battle. And so blood would first be shed there.

Castrum Kremnos, further inside of Nikador’s claimed territory, could only be retaken once enough land had been taken back. 

Phainon had grown up listening to stories about Castrum Kremnos, after all he had so little memory of it himself. Even in the palace, he had walked beside tapestries of its legends and myths.

Torches were being lit outside, meals handed out and soldiers gathering together at campfires to tell stories and feel a little more at home. Phainon and Mydeimos returned back to the western side of the camp, where the Kremnoans had already carved a space for themselves. 

A lower ranking soldier bowed when they came in, directing them to their tent that they would be staying in. Mydeimos had only nodded, and Phainon silently wondered if he should have said something before, to avoid the proximity that was surely awaiting. But then again, if he had, it would have made it apparent to the entire army that something was amiss between them. Though he wasn’t sure he cared so much about that anyways.

He pushed first past the heavy cloth door, noting already that they had only provided one bed for them. It was to be expected, given all of Kremnos knew of their relationship. Phainon disregarded it, walking over to the side where two chairs and a small table had been placed, already preoccupying himself by unlacing his wrist bracers. 

Mydeimos walked in behind him, and was now sitting oddly silent at the edge of the bed. Phainon could feel the sparks already lighting against the back of his teeth. A raw, bleeding ache. He opened his mouth, heat already swelling up into his throat. And then he shut his lips tightly, biting down hard enough to hurt. 

How can you walk beside me and pretend nothing is wrong? How could you bear to lie to me all this time? Is that how little I meant to you?

His shaking fingers fumbled with the laces, and angrily he tore them back until the bracer loosened. He threw it on the table, already turning heel and storming out of the tent. It welled up in his throat, suffocating him. Bitterness and anger which he had no understanding of where to place.

His breathing was unsteady as he came outside, where the air felt not so suffocating, where he could finally breathe again. But knowing that Mydeimos might follow, Phainon quickly began to stride anywhere else, anywhere he could be left alone and not have to look at the man anymore. 

The Kremnoan army was gathered at dawn, the day the first line of defense would begin against Nikador’s army. Okhema had agreed to war. 

Wind fluttered through their flags, and yet Mydeimos’ clear voice seemed to travel with it through the crowds of soldiers. Phainon watched as he stood before them, a new king who had been prophesied to end this war once and for all. His golden skin shone as bright as his bronze armor, red cape whistling behind him. A sheathed sword hung by his hip, his mother’s spear in one hand and his shield in the other. Across its face was the design of a lion hunting its prey.

He did not speak to the soldiers in poetry or riddles. No, he spoke to them like one would with comrades, and Phainon could tell that they delighted in him even more for it. It was something born in Mydeimos, that fire which people crowded towards. 

They believed in him. They believed in the prophecy.

And Phainon wondered if they would be cheering and roaring in response to his every word if they truly knew. Would they mourn him? Would they cry for him?

Mydeimos had accomplished what he needed to. The soldiers were ripe with determination, they were chanting and pounding their weapons. Yet as Mydeimos watched from the mound, Phainon could see the mask slowly fading, and that lifeless glaze fell over his eyes once more.

It was a blur as final arrangements were made, and when all the armies were gathered, one could hear the overwhelming sound of chants and clattering weapons. 

The march to Okhema’s borders was unbearable. Phainon had been just behind Mydeimos, in line with several other generals. They would be meeting Nikador’s army head on. 

Flashes of memory came back to Phainon when they finally crested to the flat plain of Okhema’s city gates, seeing there line upon line of Nikador’s army, and the crimson lance painted across each shield. There were horns blowing, shouting and final commands being made. At this point it hardly mattered. It would be a charge from both forces, and only pure brute force would win out. There was something to be proved today - which side would falter first. 

However, as sound blurred, Phainon glanced to Mydeimos. The man was looking out at the expanse of soldiers, at each and every one of them. But Phainon knew who he was looking for. 

Nikador.

Phainon knew well enough that he wouldn’t be here today. No, not until this opposing force was enough to be considered a real enemy. Not until his hand was forced, given the prophecy. 

And yet Mydeimos was looking for him.

You wouldn’t have told me the truth, even if it were today. You would steal from me any chance to say goodbye. Any chance to try and stop this.

He was unable to linger on it as the charge began, the pounding of feet and roar of armor and cries deafening. Shields crashed together like a wave onto a cliff side, screams and splintering spears. Swords licked beneath armor, butchering and cutting bodies open.

Phainon pushed back a man, closing his heart as he cut him through. He had always preferred the sword, while Mydeimos the spear. They fought close to one another, and in the heat of battle, Phainon thought only of protecting Mydeimos. As if forgetting the fact that Mydeimos couldn’t die here. No, it wasn’t quite his time yet.

He couldn’t see Mydeimos’ face, but could see the crimson splattered across his bronze helm, the staining of blood and flesh up to the grip on his spear. The flex of his arm as he thrusted his mother’s spear forward into the throat of an outmatched soldier, his feet sturdy and quick across the field. He was horrifyingly beautiful. 

Eventually, Phainon’s focus had to be redirected to his own battles. It seemed endless, this battle.

Wretched death, and the scramble of bodies to survive. But he wondered, deep down, if he would have viewed this as such a terrible thing had he not known the truth. The answer wouldn’t come.

Triumph soared as Nikador’s army began to sound the shrill horns of retreat, and the battlefield became a game of chase and final endings. Phainon, seeing no reason to bloody a soldier attempting to flee, came to a slow. He panted, now able to feel the full weight of his armor, the way it pinched against his skim uncomfortably and the sweat underneath it.

Breathily heavily, his eyes settled just ahead. 

Mydeimos, standing out by the golden horse hair upon his helm, slammed his spear through one last man, ripping it out of his gut as he fell. Phainon’s eyes widened.

A sea of death, piled about him.

Mydeimos was breathing through his mouth, eyes shot open, so covered in blood it was difficult to tell where his skin began.

How terrible and horrifying it was, to see right before his very eyes, that Mydeimos truly was born for this. Made for this, weaved by the hands of fate. 

Mydeimos stood there, shoulders rising and falling, spear held tightly in his hand. He was bathed in it, blood and grime and tears and sweat. And yet as he stood there, the clouds above parted, shining light down upon him and only him. Shrouding him against all others, alone amongst the dozen or so bodies scattered by his feet. 

The other soldiers looked upon him with awe, as if he were a god amongst men. A rightful king. 

But it tore at Phainon, splitting him apart. At that moment, he did not see victory. He saw loneliness. 

And he saw Mydeimos, just fifteen, cupping a moth between his palms and peeking between his fingers to look at it. Gentle, so as not to harm its delicate wings. Then, as he let it go, watching it fly away with curious and bright eyes. 

Mydeimos was born for this. But he had never wanted it. 

In another life, Mydeimos would have been king of a peaceful land. In another life, he would never have had to be the sacrificial lamb for a prophecy.

A sudden ache of hurt twisted inside of him, and Phainon turned away. 

The conflicting pains and desires. And the inability to understand how to balance this sense of betrayal and the need to hold Mydeimos against him.

“Glory to King Mydeimos!” A soldier cried out, and they began to chant this, all of them, pounding their weapons into the blood soaked ground, beating their armored chests. 

Today’s battle was over. They had won. How many more until Mydeimos had to face Nikador?

Phainon washed himself by one of the creeks alone. His body was aching, sore and uncomfortable. They would be staying here for a few more days before moving closer inland to the north. On to the next battle, now that their presence as an opposition would be undeniably recognized.

As he had been walking to the camp, he had overheard the conversation of the other city state armies. 

“We find our first real victory upon the arrival of King Mydeimos and Kremnoans. It’s true then, the prophecy they talk about.”

The water was cold and shallow, and Phainon was reminded of that creek from all those years ago. He bit the inside of his cheek until it bled.

It was late by the time Phainon walked back through the Kremnoan camp, the army beginning to sway into a well deserved sleep. Only a few night guards were out, and they bowed their heads to Phainon as he passed by. Even though he had no real royalty to his name.

When he came into the tent, Mydeimos was sitting on the bed, as if he had been waiting there. Phainon could see the weary weight hanging off Mydeimos’ shoulders. He was exhausted, body and mind. And yet he had stayed awake, waiting for Phainon to return.

Why won’t you do it? Why won’t you just tell me the truth?

How many more chances do I have to give you? Or will you truly make me pry it from you, as if we weren’t equals?

It seemed like Mydeimos had gone to wash at some point as well though, given the fact that he wasn’t currently covered in blood. Phainon stretched out his neck, just wanting to go to sleep. But by the way Mydeimos was already awaiting him by the edge of the bed, he figured that may not happen immediately.

“You’re okay?” Mydeimos eventually asked. “We haven’t been able to speak.”

Unspoken was the implication that Phainon had walked away before Mydeimos could come to him. 

Phainon sat down next to him, though with some distance. He fought the instinct to grab onto Mydeimos’ wrist and trace his thumb over the soft inner skin there.

“I’m alright. And you?”

There was a pause, and then a small nod. Uncertainty was a strange and unfamiliar thing for Mydeimos to wear.

“I was waiting for you.”

Phainon made a sound of acknowledgment.

Mydeimos finally broke the distance between them, putting a hand on Phainon’s knee. Then, slowly, as if half expecting to be denied, leaned in to kiss Phainon. It was a chaste thing.

Conflicted feelings bubbled up inside of Phainon. But strangely, as Mydeimos pressed against him, what he thought of the most was the lifelessness in the man as their army chanted his name. And so Phainon, after a moment, finally relented some. Allowed Mydeimos to kiss him, allowed his own hand to come and rest on the back of Mydeimos’ neck. He felt dizzy. Unarmed.

Mydeimos pressed his forehead against Phainon’s temple when their lips parted.

“I missed you,” he said quietly.

Phainon’s fingers trembled, and he had to clutch down at the furs beneath them to stop himself from saying something back. He could almost choke on it. The sense of betrayal and the anger at the hypocrisy before him. And so he said nothing back, instead letting that statement stand alone. 

How much longer until Mydeimos gave in?

He could feel Mydeimos’ soft breath against his cheek, and he looked with detached eyes as the man slowly pulled back. For a moment, he thought Mydeimos might do it. But then, instead, he began to drop down off the bed.

Confused, Phainon watched as Mydeimos got down onto his knees, fitting himself between Phainon’s legs. His heart stopped beating for a moment. 

Mydeimos was looking up at him, hands now propped on each of his thighs. The fires of the oil lamps grew dim, flickering out. In the darkness, he could still see Mydeimos’ golden eyes. 

When it came to these sorts of matters, Phainon had always known how to make Mydeimos soft. How to make him open his legs, gasp against the sheets, plead for more. But, it was not something easily given. Mydeimos had always made him work for it, his willing submission. Especially something like this.

In some sense, Phainon had always known that he was the only person that Mydeimos would ever give himself to in such a manner. The both of them seemed distinctly aware of how unnatural this act was, and Phainon watched as Mydeimos tried to push past it.

“Why would you ever kneel to me?” Phainon asked, stopping Mydeimos before anything could happen. 

There was silence.

Phainon realized that what he said would hurt Mydeimos. 

Mydeimos’ next breath was shaky. “Because it’s you.”

The moment was broken though, and Mydeimos tried instead to go back to kissing Phainon. They made it back towards the pillows, and Phainon could feel the push and pull of wanting this, and needing it to end. Not like this. It couldn’t be like this. 

Even when he closed his eyes, and Mydeimos’ lips were against his throat, all he could think about was Mydeimos’ dying body. What he would look like, at the very end.

“Stop,” Phainon finally said, like he would if he were being hurt.

Mydeimos did, pulling back from Phainon’s neck. For some time, the darkness was met only with their soft breaths. Eventually, Mydeimos spoke.

“You . . . do not wish to?” He asked quietly.

A part of him did. Wanted to hold Mydeimos underneath him and never let go, as if he could make Mydeimos forget his destiny and stay with him instead.

Phainon stared up at the tent ceiling, eyes entirely unmoving. “No. Not tonight.”

Mydeimos said nothing, but Phainon could sense his nervous unease. But whatever words Mydeimos had to say were left unsaid, and Mydeimos instead tugged the blanket up to their shoulders. 

He tucked himself into Phainon’s side, not draping his arm across his torso like he usually did. Instead his hand rested delicately on Phainon’s collarbone, forehead against his shoulder.

“Goodnight,” Mydeimos murmured, and Phainon kept looking ahead, drowning in the paradox of distant closeness.

 

~

 

It had been three months since their arrival, and they had managed to push Nikador’s forces back nearly halfway to the borders of Castrum Kremnos. The king of strife had yet to show himself, an act which both the armies and Mydeimos himself called an act of cowardice. All this death, even those among Nikador’s forces, could have been avoided by a direct battle. But instead they played chase and retreat with one another, extending it out far longer than necessary.

It was a curse and a blessing at the same time. Every day his fate was pushed further away was another day with Phainon. Yet, even that wasn’t the same anymore.

Everything Phainon did for him felt as if he were doing it out of obligation. And anything beyond that obligation, Phainon refused.

Two months into the war, Phainon had requested to have his own tent closer to his unit. It was more convenient, he said. Wanting to avoid conflict, Mydeimos had agreed to it with little fight. He had thought it would make Phainon happy, but the man just seemed more displeased than ever. Now, while they would still see each other every so often, the line of separation was farther apart than ever before.

Mydeimos awoke and fell asleep every time with black tendrils twisting and eating him from the inside. He was becoming less and less of himself as the days went on. A hollowed out husk, a spear and nothing more. He killed, and the armies loved him and knelt to him, and he felt absolutely nothing but vile sickness. 

And the one person who could remind him that there was a life beyond this, now couldn’t seem to bear the sight of him. He wanted more than anything to speak to Phainon, to whisper into his skin until the rising of the sun.

Is it true then? Am I truly nothing more than a weapon? Is that what you see now? 

Is that why you look upon me as if I make you sick?

He had seen Phainon’s face that first day, when he had killed so many. Horror. 

Ever since they had sailed from the shores of the island, Phainon had not been the same. A part of Mydeimos refused to accept why. His thoughts swirled and spiralled, constantly trapped in the memory of his mother’s corpse, Phainon’s fading affection, the nightmare of war, and his own unavoidable death. It was difficult to breathe sometimes.

And so he treasured moments like these, right now, after the heat of battle when Phainon would sometimes accompany him to the closest body of water. It was often silent, but at the very least Phainon was beside him. They were standing together, knee deep, in a shallow stream. It was a pleasant feeling given the hot mugginess of the afternoon.

Phainon’s hands were soft upon the skin of his back, pouring the cool water of the stream across the staining of blood upon him. Mydeimos’ hands were bunched up by his sides. He had the sense that if he released them, he would attempt to scratch and claw his own skin off.

There was a strange depersonalization in the act of killing another. Even those who had charged onto the field knowing what was to come, even those who had brandished weapons and sought to plunder and expand. Mydeimos supposed it gave some solace to know they were not innocent. But neither was he anymore, not truly.

He knew he was strong. He knew he was cunning. But even he had not expected his own unpredictability and viciousness. When the roar of chariots and clashing shields had finally settled, his ears had been ringing. 

The soldiers clasped their hands upon his shoulders and back as they returned back to the camps, and fires were lit and songs and stories shared. A forced normalcy which Mydeimos had no desire to partake in. He wanted the war over.

There was a way to end it. 

But like this, with Phainon’s hands upon him, he could pretend. Even if just for a moment, he could pretend that nothing had changed between them.

“Sing for me,” he asked, looking down at how the water was washing away the blood. 

Phainon’s hands pressed between his shoulder blades. “Sing?”

You used to recite poetry to me, when I asked.

“It’s been some time since I last heard you,” Mydeimos said. Their voices were barely loud enough to hear over the flowing of water. Phainon had always been the more musically inclined between the two of them. His fingers were far more nimble, much better suited for the lyre. And his voice was gentle, as if from the gods themselves. “I hear them playing music at the campfires at night. I’m surprised you have never joined them.”

“There’s nothing to be joyous about,” Phainon said plainly.

He supposed that was true. But still.

After a moment, Phainon spoke again. “Sing to me then.”

It wasn’t playful or teasing, but rather felt more like a demand. But at the very least Phainon wanted something from him.

Mydeimos wet his lips, and then quietly, gently, began to sing. 

It was one he remembered from Phainon. And although he was a poor imitation, he would try if it made Phainon happy now.

Hold me even as the night passes.

As I lay in your arms, speak honey and spread yarrow over my wounds.

For I will heal if it is to be you with me, and again I shall open my eyes to your call.

His throat felt tight as he finished. Phainon had finished cleaning him, and there was no more reason for them to linger here in these waters.

They were standing in relative silence. Even the water seemed to be quiet.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I never had a good voice.”

I’m sorry. For everything.

He wished he could see Phainon’s expression, but then again, perhaps it was easier this way. 

A pause. And then — “You’ve always had a beautiful voice.” 

Mydeimos looked back, and Phainon pulled once at his wrist. “Come. It’s getting late. We should go back.”

Torches were already being lit as they began their journey back, and Mydeimos could hear the sounds of campfires beginning. Food and drink would be passed about, stories shared, music played. He wished he could join them, but only if Phainon were by his side.

They walked through overgrown grass, side by side.

Hesitantly, Mydeimos brushed their hands together, the way he always did when he wished for Phainon to hold him. And back then, Phainon would keep looking ahead but smile nonetheless, interlacing their fingers as they continued to walk. 

Their knuckles had only just touched when Phainon pulled his hand away, silent, refusing to acknowledge it. As if it had never happened. Strategic avoidance.

“You’ll need to find someone to help you with your armor tomorrow,” Phainon said, voice even but stripped of any emotion. “I’ll need to speak with my unit when the sun rises.”

Mydeimos, knowing when to withdraw by now, nodded silently. Once they reached the camp’s borders, they went their separate ways.

 

~

 

Phainon, along with the other generals, were huddled together with Mydeimos in one of the larger tents on the Kremnoan side of camp. In the next battle, their army would be pulling a flanking maneuver from the east, and they discussed deep into the night how to position the lines.

Undeniably, Mydeimos was a talented tactician, and an even more talented warrior. As Mydeimos spoke his commands for the night, the fires from the oil lamps flickered against the gold bands he wore, somehow making him shine brighter. The meeting was coming to a close, however, and the generals began to shuffle their papers together.

“Phainon,” Mydeimos said. “Have your soldiers come to the northern field at sunrise tomorrow. We’ll have them run the lines first.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Time seemed to slow. It hadn’t even been intentional, and yet somehow it had still slipped out. 

Mydeimos immediately looked up at him, eyes widened. Even the other generals seemed to pause for a moment. It was noticeable.

Phainon fought against any visible reaction to his own words, gathering his maps into his hands. He nodded his head. “Tomorrow, then.”

He had gone back to his own tent afterwards, mouth filled with the taste of iron after having bit his tongue so hard. He stood by the wooden table at the side of the tent, organizing papers and doing whatever he could to keep his hands busy.

Your Majesty.

Not once, not ever, had he used a royal title for Mydeimos.

It wasn’t a surprise then, some time later, when the flap of his tent was opened. There was only one person who would enter unannounced. Phainon didn’t look up, despite the way the skin on the back of his neck seemed to burn.

He could feel Mydeimos’ gaze on him. A part of him expected Mydeimos to say it outright. Before the war, he would have. But now they both walked on eggshells around one another. 

“You ran off so quickly,” Mydeimos said, in a forced conversational tone. “I thought we could have dinner together.”

It wasn’t what Phainon had expected, and it just made him feel worse. This pretending. The more they faked, the less real all of it felt.

“You can go without me,” he said. 

Silence, and then he heard the man walking closer.

Mydeimos ran a hand across his shoulder, and Phainon could feel the hesitation in his touch. He couldn’t find it in himself to give leeway, and instead he pulled his shoulder back.

“You should go to sleep after eating. We have an early morning tomorrow,” he said tersely.

Phainon could feel Mydeimos still standing there, likely with an almost perfectly neutral expression. After all, it wasn’t like him to express the truth.

“You’re angry at me.”

Phainon could feel his jaw tightening.

“How so?”

“You’ve never used that title for me,” Mydeimos said. 

Phainon didn’t bother asking what he meant by that, because they both knew.

“Is that not your title?”

A moment. He could imagine the subdued confusion on Mydeimos.

“Not for you.”

And his words seemed so self assured, like speaking a fact. Phainon could feel the paper becoming taut underneath his fingertips.

“You are the king,” he said.

“I am not your king—"

“Are you not my king?” Phainon coldly snapped, finally whipping around. 

It cut between them like a blade. Phainon stood there, rigid with a certain venom in his gaze. 

And Phainon knew it hurt Mydeimos, even if Mydeimos would never admit it. He had known, from early on, that Mydeimos didn’t want to be treated like royalty. He knew how isolated it made Mydeimos feel, like he was all alone.

Phainon knew how secretly, and how desperately, Mydeimos feared being alone.

And yet you don’t seem to care about doing the same to me.

“What has been wrong with you? Why do you push me away?” Mydeimos finally asked, his voice hard.

Phainon bit so hard on the edge of his tongue that he felt blood. So it would happen like this? Right now?

He had wanted Mydeimos to tell the truth willingly. He had given him so many chances. But it was apparent now that Mydeimos, as stubborn and selfish as he was, wasn’t going to give it. It would have to be forced out of him.

Inevitably, Phainon’s anger flared. His blood heated until he was seething. All this time he had tried to keep it in. He dreamed of how it would happen, what it would be like when they finally laid the truth all out. And none of it prepared him for the rage. The exploding bitterness, the choking ranchor that seized hold of him. It was squeezing the life out of him.

Unwavering, Phainon stared back at Mydeimos. There was no kindness, no sympathy in his gaze nor his voice.

“I want you to tell me that you love me.”

He watched his words settle in Mydeimos. 

“What?”

Phainon continued.

“Right now. Say it.”

Mydeimos was straight-backed now. A pinched expression. Phainon knew what he looked like when he was cornered. 

“This is what you choose to fight over in the midst of war?” Mydeimos finally questioned.

Phainon gave a tight-lipped smile. “Yes, since there doesn’t seem to be much more time for me to do so.”

Each of these blows, the unsteady physical exhaustion of it, Phainon felt it all. It was a crushing pressure stuck in his chest, and yet he tamped down the smothered emotion in his eyes.

“You’ve never said it. Not even once. Why?”

He thought he had seen every emotion on Mydeimos, but not this. Watching him reel through every response, entirely unprepared for this confrontation.

“Why does it matter?” he settled on. “You know how I feel.”

“It has always mattered,” Phainon spat. “It has always mattered that you are too cowardly to say those words to me.”

His pulse was thundering in his ears. 

If you loved me, then you would have told me the truth.

“Is it truly such a burden to say those words? To admit that you love me?”

Mydeimos shook his head once, sounding winded.

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly well. I’m not the fool you think I am, after all.”

Phainon smiled coldly.

“Does it make you feel good, knowing that you were able to deceive me for so long?”

And there it was. He could see the moment it hit Mydeimos. He couldn’t describe it in words, the realization on Mydeimos’ face. The sudden horror, the fear, the guilt, all of it. It was almost enough to crack Phainon’s composure. Almost.

Glass shattering, unable to come back together entirely. Broken things never truly healed. Scars would always haunt you.

Mydeimos, despite his blunt words, despite his tendency to rely on himself, was not stupid. And Phainon had always known that. There was nothing Mydeimos could do now to pretend. He didn’t even ask how Phainon had found out.

“I,” Mydeimos said, strangely, “I never meant—”

“You meant it,” Phainon interrupted him. “Every moment of it. You meant it. Don’t think I’ll fall for another one of your lies.”

Mydeimos kept shaking his head, and it just made everything worse.

“You lied to me. You looked me in the eye and you lied.”

“I couldn’t,” Mydeimos tried to say, and it was the most desperate Phainon had ever heard him sound. “I couldn’t do it.”

“Now. Say it now.”

Mydeimos’ expression crumpled, and Phainon could see him beginning to withdraw. Honorable, courageous, Mydeimos. 

“No, no. You tell me what the oracle said now. You tell me the end of that prophecy!”

Nothing, and Phainon finally snapped, shouting.

“Say it!”

You wouldn’t give it to me willingly. I had to force it from you.

Mydeimos looked pained, and he spoke like a dying man. An admission of guilt.

“Yet the Son too shall perish by strife’s blade, holding his heart in his very hands as life fades away.”

It gutted him, and he stumbled back a step, having to hold on to the table’s edge to keep himself standing. He blinked, once, twice, his eyes becoming wet.

It really was true. Somehow it hurt worse than when the oracle had told him his own prophecy. It was too much, and he couldn’t control the breaking in his voice.

“Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was . . .” Mydeimos started, voice unsteady, breathy and weak. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me? Hurt me? You only ever cared about yourself. This was about you.”

Mydeimos’ lips were held tight, and Phainon almost laughed. 

“Did you even intend to say goodbye? Or were you just going to leave without a word?”

Nothing.

“Did you think I would be happy? Knowing that I was so easy to leave? That you only kept me by your side, not to be your companion, not to be your equal, but to keep you warm? To be your bedside toy and nothing more?” Phainon bitterly forced out.

“No,” Mydeimos insisted, Phainon’s words finally seeming to awaken something in him.

“You’re selfish. Even if you refuse to see it,” Phainon said. “Would you like to know how I discovered your deceit? I sought out the oracle before we left, and only through her did I come to know the truth. And even then . . . Even after so many years, I still gave you endless chances to come forward to me. I gave you every opportunity. How foolish I was to think you cared enough to take them.”

“I have always cared about you,” Mydeimos argued back, finally beginning to stand tall again. “I have always held you by my side.”

“And the entire way you only pretended to treat me as your equal,” Phainon shot back. “You knew. You knew you would leave.”

Leave. They both were still speaking around the reality of it. 

“Did I not deserve to know?” Phainon insisted, feeling as if he were begging. “Is that truly what you thought all this time?”

Mydeimos, for all these months, had been so quiet. So unwilling to be in conflict with him. But now, with everything laid out between them, nothing left to protect or hide, it seemed there was nothing holding Mydeimos back anymore.

“What’s it matter to you?” Mydeimos snapped, voice rising in heat. “You think I don’t care? It’s me who has to bear this burden — not you! I’ve had to carry this with me my entire life, so don’t stand there and pretend like I’m the coward. You couldn’t even begin to understand the weight upon me.”

“And that’s my fault?” Phainon scoffed. “This is on you. You were the one who could have confided in me. You didn’t have to carry this burden alone. You chose that yourself.”

“And then what?” Mydeimos spat. “What would you have done if I had told you? Kept your distance from me? Closed your heart off?”

Phainon tried to speak but Mydeimos wouldn’t let him, stepping forward until they were close enough to feel each other’s ire.

“You have only proven to me that if I told you the truth, you would have abandoned me from the very start. You avoid me, you treat me as if I am a stain upon you. You act as if the life we shared together meant nothing. So, tell me, why? Why? Why would I have ever told you when it is evident just how easy you would have thrown me aside?”

He laughed, and it was strained and inauthentic.

“I see now just how cheap your love is.”

Phainon recoiled, and he knew the horror upon his expression.

He knew, because he saw Mydeimos’ reaction to it. 

For a moment, there was just silence. Wretched and entangled time. 

Phainon wondered if he could ever truly forget those words. 

He wondered if Mydeimos would either.

The small step forward, the conflict in Mydeimos’ eyes. The man had never known how to hold back his punches. But now, it was too far. There was no taking it back.

And Phainon knew that Mydeimos regretted it now. That he was seeking to make amends now. But it didn’t matter.

Whatever mask he had been trying to wear shattered. He could feel the moment heat swelled behind his eyes, the glazing over of his vision. A cold anger and hurt which he had never felt before.

Whatever tears were there did not fall. It was as if time were frozen. 

“Get out.”

Mydeimos didn’t say anything, but Phainon could see it all written over his face. Again, too cowardly to say any of it aloud.

“Get out,” he repeated, voice raising. “Get out!”

It was a blur as he crossed the few paces of distance between them, shoving Mydeimos back. And then again, harder.

“You think my love is cheap?” And he didn’t hear himself, couldn’t hear if he was shouting or saying the words at all. “Every moment I spent with you was a farce, a lie.”

Mydeimos didn’t fight back, just staring at him like he was hurting, like he cared.

He hated it more than anything now.

“You’re right,” Phainon spat. “It was a waste. If I had the chance to go back and change this, I would in a heartbeat.”

After his last strike, Mydeimos had caught onto his wrist. A weak grip, fingers loosely wrapped around him.

“Because if I had known, I would have left. I would never have sworn myself to your side. You’re a selfish coward.”

Phainon was panting now, unable to control his breath. His senses were heightened and dulled at the same time, completely detached. 

And yet, in the passing of seconds, he began to feel something. He didn’t look down, unable to look away from Mydeimos’ face.

But he felt the uncontrollable shaking of Mydeimos’ hand. He didn’t know why he said it, but he did.

“I wish . . . I wish I had never found you that day.”

Mydeimos’ eyes were glossy, face warped like a shattered reflection. Phainon had only seen Mydeimos look like this once before. Back when they were boys, back when Phainon knew none of what he did now.

Mydeimos had held onto him just like this. Just like this. 

I need you.

And it defeated him. Utterly and truly. 

Before him now was that Mydeimos. Younger eyes gazed up at him, held on to him.

“You don’t need me.”

He pulled his hand away.

“Get out.”

He didn’t wait to watch, turning around and leaning his hands down against the table, finding himself almost on the verge of collapse.

“Please,” he forced out.

Maybe seconds, minutes, more. And Phainon finally heard the movement of his tent flap. He was alone now.

It was quiet.

It was over now.

He stared down at the maps. 

He blinked, and tears fell across the ink, spreading it across in black wisps. 

How was he supposed to live with himself, knowing that he was unable to protect Mydeimos? Knowing that Mydeimos, who had been raised beside him, had been on a sacrificial altar this entire time and Phainon had been blind to it all the while.

Why didn’t you tell me?

Why couldn’t you trust me?

Despite everything . . . Phainon had wanted to believe that they had stood by each other as equals. And now it felt like Phainon was losing sight of him, like he was slipping away now through his fingers.

Phainon tried to inhale, only hearing the hoarse throbbing of his voice. He closed his eyes, slumping down into his chair and burrowing his face into his arms. 

And he couldn’t forget. He couldn’t forget Mydeimos’ face. He couldn’t forget his own understanding that as strong as the man was, Mydeimos could never have truly defended himself against that. 

 

~

 

Mydeimos jolted awake, heart pounding painfully, skin damp with sweat. Instinctually, he looked to his side, but no one was there. He closed his eyes again, trying to calm his breathing. It had just been a dream.

Those words that he had uttered in ignorant anger, repeated over and over again.

It was raining outside, and beads of water raced down the glass pane of the room’s window. They had made it to Janusopolis, the last city state before they would reach Castrum Kremnos. Their forces would be stationed here for the next week to regroup, strategize, and assemble the last of their armies. Nikador’s army, surrounded now, had taken to the city of Castrum Kremnos as their last stronghold. Victory was at hand, and as fate would have it, it would be done on his homelands. Perhaps he should be thankful that he would live long enough to see the gates of his city one last time. 

It was dark outside, but Mydeimos wouldn’t sleep for the rest of the night. He hardly slept at all now. Quietly, he shifted out of bed, dressing himself and leaving the quarters granted to him. 

They hadn’t spoken. Not once. Three months since that night, and nothing.

In some way, Mydeimos had already met his fate. It was all his fault, all of it. 

His selfishness, his cowardice, his cruelty. The oracle had been right. He was a weapon for fate and nothing more. It was in his nature to harm others. His indecisiveness had cost his mother’s life. His spear had slaughtered hundreds.

And most of all, he had broken Phainon. 

The only interactions had been those at council meetings. And even those, limited. The day before, Phainon hadn’t met Mydeimos’ eyes once, speaking in a flat voice as he gave his advice on the formations the army should be holding on their final advancement. They were less than a pace from one another, and yet they had never felt so far apart. When Mydeimos dismissed them for the night, Phainon turned away and did not look back.

Mydeimos found himself wandering to the small training grounds just outside the main fortress, the ground there sandy and the area lit by torches. He grabbed a spare sword from the rack, silent as he began to go through his own moveset. 

Once he was gone, Castrum Kremnos would be brought to a better place. The people could return home, rebuild, put this war behind them. In the absence of any living royal, and in the absence of an heir, Kremnoans had always chosen to elect their next crown. By now, Mydeimos knew who would be chosen, as long as he accepted it. The people had always loved him. And he would be a better king than Mydeimos ever could be. 

In another life, it would have been them together. Side by side.

But dreams were dreams.

He slid across the sandy training grounds, imagining soldiers around him, imagining their shields and their spears cresting towards him. Fighting, Phainon told him once, was akin to dancing. 

“You look the most beautiful when you’re like this,” Phainon had said when they were sparring, both of them sweating and panting with exertion. He could still remember the way Phainon was smiling, and his own laugh of disbelief mixed with exasperation. 

When he swung his blade down, breath heavy, he stopped. He looked up, wondering if it was an illusion. 

There, standing by the entrance, leaning against the walls with crossed arms, was Phainon. Mydeimos didn’t know how long he had been standing there watching. Tension immediately swelled in the room. 

Phainon took a step forward, eyes almost calculating. Without even looking, Phainon pulled a sword from the rack, unsheathing it. Mydeimos watched him approach.

“What are you doing?” he finally asked, and the words felt odd coming from his tongue.

“Sparring,” Phainon said, as if it were obvious. Again, there was no warmth in his voice. 

They were circling each other now, and Phainon flipped the sword in his grip, looking up and down its length, feeling out for himself this new weapon.

“Why?”

And he meant it. Why now? Why here? It had been months. 

Phainon glanced back at him, the blue of his eyes darker in this light. “For old times’ sake.”

It was meant to be cruel, and Mydeimos knew it. Felt it to his core. 

“Do you think I could stop you?” Phainon questioned.

A line drew between Mydeimos’ brows in confusion. Phainon tilted his head in response.

“Stop you here, right now. And then you could never face Nikador.”

His mind went blank, uncomprehending. Then, slow realization. 

“What are you talking about?”

Phainon was so pale that he looked sick. And Mydeimos knew that just like himself, Phainon had been plagued. The guilt ate at him, knowing it was his doing. 

“Perhaps we could test the limits of fate,” Phainon said. “See if that prophecy is truly meant to be.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Mydeimos responded, a foreboding sense building deep in his stomach.

“Then go on. Fight me, and we’ll see who prevails,” Phainon challenged him, and Mydeimos stiffened. 

Phainon attacked first, four strikes back to back, quick and ferocious. These weren’t training swords, and the metal bit and sparked. It wasn’t straightforward, and Mydeimos could tell that Phainon was giving it his all. His blade was teasing, slipping away, and then thrusting forward with a dangerous edge that Mydeimos had never seen before. He countered, circling back and using the space of the grounds.

It was clear that Phainon was here for a reason. To fight. Mydeimos wouldn’t refuse him. And so he used all his strength, unleashing strikes with enough impact that it left Phainon staggering back. They parried with one another, countering in deadly flashes and dodging all the same. It was difficult to not be engrossed. The both of them were fighters, through and through. And while Phainon had always had better swordplay and Mydeimos the better spearwork, Mydeimos was good enough to handle him here and now. 

Blades clashed, and memory spoke between them. Emotionally charged, it breathed through the exertion of their muscles and the harshness of their breaths. It was just them, like it always had been. 

“Here, for you,” Mydeimos had said, holding out a sheathed sword between them.

Phainon blinked. “For me?”

Mydeimos nodded. After all, Phainon would need his own.

“But that’s your sword. Your favorite.”

“And now it’s yours. Take it.”

“I can’t,” Phainon said, shaking his head. “That’s far too precious.”

Yet Mydeimos had given it to him anyways, and he always would. 

The fight continued, and yet neither side had relented. And so on and on it went, until they were both exhausted, hands so sweaty that their grips had become loose. Knowing it was pointless, Mydeimos backed away and unceremoniously tossed his sword to the side. Like always, it was a tie. They would be here until morning if they continued, or at least until they both passed out from exhaustion. And it was useless to do such a thing, given how little time they had now.

He was aware of the tightness in his chest, masked by his heavy breathing. His hair was damp against his skin, bangs sticking oddly to his forehead. This wasn’t going to end well.

“You can’t stop me,” Mydeimos said. “You know you can’t.”

Phainon smiled bitterly at him, and Mydeimos found himself unprepared for such an unfamiliar sight. 

“You’re right. I could never beat you in a fight,” he said. And then that smile was gone. “But neither could you ever best me. And so tell me, Mydeimos. What difference would it make if I were to take your place? If I were the one to face Nikador’s blade instead of you?”

For a moment, everything was silent.

Mydeimos stared at Phainon, thinking at first this was some ill joke. But it wasn’t. Phainon looked back at him with his chin raised, conviction in his eyes.

He shook his head, speaking slowly. His voice came out more strangled than he had thought it would.

“It is my prophecy.”

“A prophecy by a decrepit woman. Mere words which you obsess over.”

Mydeimos’ chest flared. “Mere words which have already come to pass true. My mother is dead and I am king.”

The room felt small, the walls closing in around them.

Phainon tilted his head to the side, his gaze harsh. “Then tell me. Do you truly believe there would be a difference between you and me?”

They stared at one another, neither budging, neither relenting.

“Do you truly believe I would be unable to kill him?”

“You would die,” Mydeimos said.

“So will you.”

Phainon gave him a feigned expression of thought. “And I would think that your people, your council, your captains, would much prefer a mere soldier dying rather than their king.”

Mydeimos’ jaw went tight. “You’re not a mere soldier.”

“Aren’t I?”

“What are you trying to do here?” Mydeimos snapped. “This is my choice. Not yours.”

Phainon smiled thinly. “You’ve made that abundantly clear. It’s all your choice, like always. Without any thought of anyone else, with any care for what will follow. But I am here, now, telling you that there is another way. My life in exchange for yours.”

“It won’t work. Even if you are my equal, this is what the prophecy has said. We cannot change fate.”

“I don’t think you believe that.”

“I do, ” Mydeimos said, anger and something indescribable rising up in him. “You can’t do it. You can’t face Nikador.”

Do you think prophecies have to be true?

Yes. I do.

“Why?” Phainon said, voice alight. “What is the difference between us? Why does it have to be you?”

“Because it’s not meant to be you.”

“Why?” Phainon demanded, “ Why?!”

“Because you aren’t supposed to die!” Mydeimos finally shouted, everything snapping apart. “It’s me! You can’t leave. I’m supposed to —”

Mydeimos shut his eyes, his breath catching. He leaned back against the wall behind him, needing it now to stay upright.

It exhausted him. And his words now were quiet, defeated. 

“I’m supposed to protect you.”

He could only hear his own pounding heart.

“You can’t . . . You can’t leave.”

You can’t leave me.

Those words from before now echoed in Mydeimos’ mind. The expression on Phainon’s face as he said them. “You’re selfish, even if you refuse to see it.”

I know I’m selfish. I couldn’t live without you.

But you could live on without me. It’s fate that you will.

“I begged her once. The oracle.” 

His voice was strangled. 

“I begged her to find another path for me. To see a world where I didn’t have to face him and this fate of mine. And she told me her answer. That fate would find its way to punish me for running away. And it would take from me the very reason I ran away. You. And even then, fate would still find a way to claim my life.”

It is fate for us to be parted. But the choice is which of us goes first.

Mydeimos finally looked up, his gaze hard. He spoke like a king.

“I will not allow you to take my place. It will be me. And if fate has its way, you must be there to take up my mantle and lead our people home.”

Phainon said nothing, his expression carefully blank. Mydeimos took a step forward.

“If you try and interfere —”

“I won’t interfere,” Phainon interrupted. Mydeimos had expected coldness again. But there wasn’t. This time, it wasn’t meant to be cruel. It just was.

“I won’t be there,” Phainon continued. “If you go, I will not fight by your side. I will not be with you. You will die alone.”

Phainon’s voice was breaking, his eyes wet.

He wanted to take a step back. He wanted Phainon to see what his words had done to him, and to close the distance between them. Reach out for him in an embrace and apologize, say that he didn’t mean it, that he was sorry.

But Phainon did mean it. He meant every word of it, and Mydeimos knew it.

Once, they had walked to the highest cliffs of the island with their hands intertwined. Phainon had been laughing, and Mydeimos had kissed him slowly.

Outside, the sun was beginning to rise.

Soft, golden light began to creep through the training grounds, cutting through shadow and spilling onto their skin.

Mydeimos could see the hurt in Phainon.

I love you, Phainon had once told him.

“I am sorry for everything,” Phainon said, and it tore into Mydeimos worse than anything before. “But I cannot be there for you. Not if you choose to break my heart like this.”

There was an ache splitting through Mydeimos’ ribs. 

You’re the only one. There is no one else.

Mydeimos watched as Phainon began to back away, shaking his head as if still in disbelief. His eyes were glistening, gaze somewhere between hurt and remorse. 

 

~

 

The armies made way for Castrum Kremnos, beginning the journey to the bronze and marble city. It would likely take a week until they arrived, but spirits amongst their soldiers were high. Nikador’s forces were desperate now, like a cornered animal being hunted.

The air was clean, warm and delicate. The landscape had become rolling hills, and the Kremnoans began to whisper of home. Camp was set down, and once Mydeimos had done his part, he separated from the rest of the army. Past the hills was an open clearing, and across the grassy plains was an expanse of budding flowers. And even though Mydeimos was just a weapon, even though he was stained to his core with blood and death, he still found himself walking towards it. 

He sat down, feeling the soft grass against his fingers, touching against the stems of the flowers which he could not name. One of the flower’s petals was a delicate blue, similar to that of Phainon’s eyes. Mydeimos found himself unable to look away, recalling all that had passed. 

Then, slowly, he closed his eyes, resting his forearms upon his knees. 

Even if it was painful, even if I did it all wrong . . .

I will die happy knowing that you were a part of me.

A breeze carried across the field, and Mydeimos thought he could fall asleep like this. Just pass on, until someone awoke him.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Mydeimos opened his eyes, and turned to look behind him.

Phainon was there, steady and calm.

Still water disturbed even by stones would eventually settle.

“You always knew how,” Mydeimos said.

Phainon looked down at Mydeimos’ arm, the front of his forearm, where there was a small cut. “What happened?”

Mydeimos glanced at it. He had hardly noticed it before. “It must have been from setting up camp.”

Exhaling through his nose, Phainon came to kneel beside him. He plucked a few leaves from one of the flowers, crushing them between his fingers. Mydeimos stayed still as Phainon rubbed the paste over his cut, gently, so as not to hurt him any more.

“Yarrow,” Phainon said, dropping the rest of the flower.

Mydeimos wasn’t sure what to expect now.

Phainon looked at him a moment longer, silent, and then held out his hand. “Come. Let’s go for a walk.”

They stopped once they found a stone base to sit upon, deeper now in the field of flowers. The afternoon was beginning to settle into twilight. Unlike before, the silence wasn’t so unbearable.

There were only days left now. Time was running out.

After some time, it seemed like Phainon was about to say something, but Mydeimos parted his lips before he could.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Phainon faced him, listening.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Mydeimos said quietly. “I never . . . I never should have said such things.”

He closed his eyes, feeling the dull ache pulsing there at his skull. “I wanted to hurt you. Even though I’ve been hurting you for all these years. Whether you knew of it or not.”

And he had to say it, had to say these things before it was too late.

“You are my everything. The reason I fear this prophecy, and the reason I must fulfill it. But I know . . . I am selfish. There were times I wished to tell you the truth, but I couldn’t do it. I was overcome by the fear that you would leave me if you knew. But all I did was push you away. And I created what I feared the most.”

He ached, and yet so too was it freeing. 

“I know what I did was wrong. But . . .  I need you to know that I have always cared for you. You have been my heart from the very beginning. You have always been my equal. It wasn’t you I distrusted. It was myself.”

Voice beginning to tremble, Mydeimos finally allowed the silence to take over.

“Do you remember that creek we fell into as children?” Phainon eventually asked, his voice calm.

Mydeimos nodded once. 

“I used to pray there after my father died. I prayed to the gods, begging them to take away my pain. My loneliness.”

Phainon gave a small smile. “You were . . . my whole life. You have no idea what it meant to me when you asked me to swear myself to your side. I wanted forever with you. I never would have imagined we would become this.”

Their fingers touched between them, and this time, Phainon didn’t recoil, he didn’t withdraw. He brought Mydeimos’ hand into his own.

“I thought that once this war was over, we could go home together. We would ride across the plains and discover the world. We would grow old together.”

“Tell me,” Phainon said, looking at Mydeimos. “If I told you from the beginning just how much you meant to me, and how much I too wished for you to be by my side, would you have told me the truth?”

“No,” Mydeimos said, admitting it. “I always knew what I meant to you. I always knew that you were afraid of loss. But I still couldn’t bring myself to admit the truth. My selfish desire. I’m not . . . I’m not good like you.”

“You’re a good man, Mydeimos,” Phainon almost seemed to laugh, though it fell short with the sorrow laced in it. “Even with your lies, you’re the most honorable man I know. And perhaps that is why fate chose you. Because any other would have broken by now. You are human, no matter what fate tries to say. You have never been a weapon.”

Mydeimos’ heart beat painfully, and suddenly it was so much. Before he knew it, his vision was blurring, memory painted across time.

“I know what I asked of you was unfair,” Phainon said. “To claim you as selfish, yet demand you run from a fate larger than us both. There is nothing you could do. Nothing at all.”

“You should hate me,” Mydeimos said.

“I wanted to. And I could have suffocated on it. How resentful I was. Part of it was towards you. However, most of it was my bitterness of fate itself.  But only you were there before me to place that anger.”

“And I’ll be dead soon.”

They gazed at one another. Finally, it was spoken in its reality aloud.

“Yes,” Phainon said softly. “You’ll be dead soon.”

Phainon’s palm slid over Mydeimos’ nape, his fingers gently intangling with the longer locks of hair there. Finally, hesitantly, Mydeimos rested his hand atop Phainon’s shoulder. 

He closed his eyes when Phainon leaned in and kissed him. It was familiar, and yet like a distant dream. The first became a second, slow and painful, the warmth of lips. 

When they broke apart, Mydeimos could feel his shallow breathing against his lips, their foreheads still pressed together and eyes closed.

“I miss you,” Phainon whispered. “I swore to myself I would cast you from my dreams. And yet you haunt me as if you were already dead.”

Mydeimos wondered if Phainon would dream of him still, once this was all over. 

“I . . . I have always wanted to protect you. To be the person you could depend on. To know that there is nothing I can do to protect you from this is like drinking poison.”

Phainon’s eyes raised, just slightly. He spoke like an admission. “And I suppose that makes me selfish too. I would curse fate itself to keep you here in my arms. But . . . Not even my heart, not even my hatred and my ire could break fate’s will. And so now I have to live with the knowledge that I was not strong enough to protect you. To save you.”

“You have given me more than I ever deserved.”

And it was true.

He took a shallow breath. “Phainon,” he said.

“Do you . . . Do you regret it?”

Is it true? 

Do you regret me? Regret us?

Phainon seemed to be looking down through his low-lidded eyes.

“Even if it’s a lie,” he quietly said, “Won’t you . . .”

He couldn’t finish his sentence, knowing well enough that Phainon would understand.

Slowly, he felt Phainon’s hands moving to cup his cheeks. He closed his eyes when Phainon kissed him again. 

“You have hurt me like none other. There will never be a wound I bear like the one you will bestow on me,” Phainon said, so softly it was nearly a whisper. “But I never would have known love if I hadn’t sworn myself to you. If you had told me all those years ago, I would have still brought you into my arms. I would have remained by your side.”

Unspoken was the implication of reality. They spoke as if in a dream. But Mydeimos had not told Phainon. He had not been true. Instead, it had been Phainon who had confronted his cowardice.

Unspoken was whether Phainon would stay by his side now, in the aftermath of the ruin.

“Phainon. You know my heart. You know that I . . .”

Mydeimos held his palm to Phainon’s cheek gently. And those words he had never said, those words which Phainon had desired so greatly, he had always held them. He had always felt them.

“Phainon, I—“

“Don’t say it,” Phainon whispered. And Mydeimos could see it on his face. He was pleading. Even now, Mydeimos was breaking Phainon’s heart.

So he obeyed, and stilled his tongue. 

The line of Phainon’s lips made an odd shape, then settled into a smile that neither of them believed.

“What . . . What am I supposed to do when you’re gone?”

Mydeimos had no answer, and so he only pressed himself closer, resting his face against Phainon’s tremoring shoulder, listening to his soft cries. He held Phainon in his arms tightly, wishing to never let go. 

They returned to Mydeimos’ tent when the night crested overhead, though based on the way Phainon held himself by the entrance, Mydeimos knew he wouldn’t be staying. He wouldn’t ask Phainon to stay this night, but . . . there was one moment he had to ask for. 

He held onto Phainon’s hand.

“Will you —“ Mydeimos stopped himself, his throat tight. He bit hard enough on his tongue to draw blood. 

“Will you come with me?”

Unspoken was the implication they both understood.

Will you accompany me in my final moments?

He couldn’t see Phainon’s expression, but he could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid way he held himself. 

“At the end of it all, I wish for you to be there by my side,” he said quietly.

Don’t go.

Mydeimos instinctively tightened his hold when he felt Phainon try to pull away. It was the most warmth he had felt from Phainon in months now.

Don’t let go.

Mydeimos couldn’t bear to say those words, for he knew how cruel they were now. To ask Phainon to stay by his side now, even though he would be the first to leave. 

I know I’m selfish. I know I’m weak. 

His heart was pounding and it was all he could hear. At the crossroads of fate, all he cared for was Phainon.

And a part of him wondered what it would be like, to take Phainon and run away. Run away from all of this. He remembered the oracle’s words.

Fate always finds a way to balance the scales.

It was either his death, or Phainon’s. He knew it all along.

And so he softened his hold on Phainon. He could feel the other’s hesitation, the conflict.

“I’m sorry, Mydeimos,” Phainon choked out. “I’m so sorry.”

It cut like a blade.

He felt the tremor of Phainon’s hand beneath his own.

“. . . I know.”

“Will you forgive me?”

‘For what?’ he wanted to ask. But he knew.

Phainon had promised him once, to never leave his side. And today, he was going to walk away. He wouldn’t be coming back.

Mydeimos’ throat was tight, heat swelling at the back of his eyes. 

Don’t let him go.

Years ago, when they were just boys, they had laid next to each other across the rocky shores of clear waters. Mydeimos had closed his eyes, and wished for forever.

“I forgive you, Phainon.”

There was silence, and Phainon pulled his hand away. Mydeimos didn’t reach for him, and the warmth was gone.

There was no farewell when he left.

Mydeimos closed his eyes, but nothing changed. Silently, he went to kneel by his bed, lying his head between his arms.

Breathless. He wondered if this was what he would feel when his life faded away.

 

~

 

Memory collided with reality. A horn bellowed, and the armies came to a halt. They stood now on the final battlefield, where it all started. Castrum Kremnos.

Its shining gates and towers stood ahead, a city of marble and bronze.

“Mother,” Mydeimos whispered. “I’m home.”

There, standing between the Kremnoans and their homeland was the last of Nikador’s forces. Lines upon lines of soldiers, horses stomping their hooves, archers lined upon the city walls, and war chariots readied. 

Mydeimos ran a palm across the broad neck of the chestnut mare he rode upon, soothing her before the charge began. Today, he had only one target. The golden chariot sitting center of the army ahead, which would hold only their finest warrior. Nikador himself.

Spears were pounded upon the ground, a roaring thunder beginning. Mydeimos looked to the west. Soon, Phainon would be leading the rest of Kremnoan’s in a flank. He had made sure in the final arrangements that Phainon would be far away from him. There wouldn’t be any chance that he would have to witness it with his own eyes. 

Phainon had held him one last time, had kissed him, and they had shared their parting words. It was more than Mydeimos could ever ask for. He was more human than he had been in months. 

Your memory alone has always been enough.

Our shared heart beats in my chest today. In a way that only you could understand.

He held onto his mother’s spear as they charged forward, and Mydeimos could already imagine it, when the gates of the city were finally opened and his people returned. Their armies clashed together, soldiers screaming and metal screeching, horses trampling upon fallen bodies and arrows piercing through limbs.

Mydeimos gave chase to Nikador’s chariot, and he was not surprised to see how it was maneuvering in an almost retreating fashion, refusing to meet him head-on. How ironic it was, that it was Mydeimos who ran to his fate now. He swept through the army, spear piercing and clearing the path.

He was not a man of prayer. But today, he prayed to the gods that Phainon live a long life, that he find happiness and a world that cherished him. That he see every sight he ever wished to discover, sing every song there could be. And only then, only then could he return to Mydeimos. 

I fight for you. 

And so he cut his way through, covered in the stains of battle and death, chasing Nikador until the man finally faced him. To meet their shared fate. 

The golden chariot had retreated to a ruin just outside the city, where a grand fortress used to stand. It had taken them away from the main battlefield, in a smaller valley where hills surrounded them. Mydeimos had dismounted his mare, letting her go free. 

Breathing heavily, he followed. 

It seemed Nikador had finally given up on running, and in the distance, Mydeimos could see him calmly stepping out from the chariot, walking onto the white ruins by himself. He looked now upon this man whose bloodlust had led to the misery of so many. Whose thirst for conquering had led to even fate to interfere. 

They faced each other across the limited space of the ruins, the air seeming to tighten around them. It would be the first, and last time they ever encountered one another.

Mydeimos looked at Nikador’s features visible underneath his helm; the dark beard across his face, high cheekbones and flared nose. He was older than Mydeimos by just over ten years. With years came experience, but undeniably, Nikador was no longer in his prime years. Mydeimos was.

Yet it served Mydeimos no comfort to know that, as he stood here, covered in grime and sweat and blood. Nikador had not a spot of dirt on him but the sheen of sweat. He had not fought once today, only picking his feet off the ground once Mydeimos had found him.

The heat of battle chilled underneath his skin. He could still hear the distant cry of their armies, the shouting and splintering of shields. Somewhere, Phainon was there, cutting through Nikador’s men and leading the western flank.

“Only a coward hides from battle.” Mydeimos stepped forward, leaving blood stains on the marble below him. “If you were a true king, you would have been there to lead your men.”

Nikador gave a low laugh, amused. “A king knows that cutting the head off is the cleanest way to end a war. That is why you sought me out, isn’t it? I merely had to wait for your prolonged arrival.”

He hadn’t moved, standing oddly still. His sword was drawn, but he had no other weapons. It was nearly white from the sun’s reflection on the blade. A sense of unease swept through the air. This was strange.

“I should have known you would run,” Mydeimos said, and it was true. “You failed to slaughter me as a child. You failed to lead your armies to victory against mine. And now you must face me here, and the conclusion of your fate.”

Nikador smiled, and Mydeimos could see the whites of his teeth despite the distance between them. “Fate? You think I fear that?”

Finally, a step forward.

“The moment you stepped onto the battlefield, the moment I saw you . . . I saw it bleeding from you. Not resolve, but resignation.”

Perhaps in another life, Mydeimos would have lived. None of this would have happened. 

In another life, he would have taken Phainon’s hand and never let go.

But he stood here now, marked with death, unable to escape this very moment.

He wondered where Phainon was now. He wondered where Phainon would be when his body fell.

“Enough words.”

Mydeimos gripped his spear. “We end this now.”

“Then try your best,” Nikador said, and Mydeimos heard something cutting through the air. 

An almost silent whistle, but enough to make Mydeimos shift to dodge whatever it was.

It wasn’t enough though, and Mydeimos felt the exact moment the arrowhead pierced into his left arm. Then the warmth of blood, numbness, and blooming of shocking pain. It spread beyond the isolated point of entry, alighting his blood as if on fire. Sharp, hissing pain through each of his limbs, down each finger. It was poisoned.

He hadn’t needed to look before casting his spear, full force, to the position the arrow had come from. Hidden above on the broken apart roof, their lifeless body crumpled as it lodged into their throat.

Nikador was upon him before he could rip the arrow from his body. He had barely the time to pull his sword from his belt and block Nikador’s vertical strike.

“Your honorable nature is your downfall,” Nikador coldly laughed. “Did you truly think I came here to willingly die by your hand?”

Mydeimos grimaced, and pushed Nikador back.

There was a flurry of strikes before Mydeimos was finally able to rip the arrow out. Its head had been barbed, and it hurt far worse coming out than it had coming in. His blood splattered across the pristine white floors, and he could feel the poison coursing through him now. He blinked hard, fighting against the spell of pain and dizziness it brought on.

His entire life had led to this encounter, this meeting of blades. Years of training, of pushing his body and his limits, of cataloging every possible move set, fighting with and leading armies. It was written into his body, into his muscles and bones. 

He parried one of Nikador’s strikes, and his blade cut down the flesh of the man’s shoulder and arm. It left a bloody gash, and he saw the expression of both immediate surprise and disturbance on Nikador’s face. The knowledge that Mydeimos was better than him.

It seemed to awaken a primal fear in Nikador, and he roared in the guttural way an animal would as if facing impending death.

Yet Mydeimos met all of his blows, blocking each with two hands gripped around his hilt, parrying enough as well to push Nikador back. Attacking, moving forward, and then receiving once again. Back and forth, and back and forth.

His mouth was dry, and his vision was shifting. He was somewhat aware of the sweat beading up on his skin, and the feeling of blood still oozing down his abdomen. 

The longer it went on, the more he wore Nikador down, and the angrier the man became. Yet so too did time drain Mydeimos, with the toxins settling inside him. He could barely feel his feet anymore.

Nikador’s next blow led him to stumble several paces to the left, nausea clutching at him as he attempted to keep his balance.

‘Like this,’ Mydeimos had said, tapping Phainon’s legs until they were in the correct stance. ‘When you fight, your legs are your roots.’

The few seconds it took him to recover was enough for Nikador to take advantage of. Again, and again, his sword came crashing down. Mydeimos held each of them back, but his defense became weaker each time. 

He was being pushed lower and lower, and then onto his knees. In the midst of the onslaught, he managed to kick out and slam his foot into the center of Nikador’s knee, buckling it back.

Mydeimos aimed for Nikador’s throat, but the man saw his attack coming and managed to divert his blow downwards. 

Close combat with swords was not ideal, and they struggled against each other. The gnashing of steel, the ground beneath them slippery with blood, an older body against a weakened youth. 

He blinked, and in the space of darkness, he watched as Phainon pressed him into their bed, kissing against his collarbone. 

Then he was back, his limbs becoming stiffer with each passing moment. 

Mydeimos’ heel slipped in the blood below them, and his balance toppled. He fell on his side, with one arm holding him up. It had been the worst possible way to fall, his back now exposed.

Nikador was standing above him and Mydeimos understood then how prophecy became. 

And yet, in that moment, as he lifted his head, he saw only one thing. The seconds became meaningless, time captured.

There, crossing over the hill, was a man.

Limping, his leg clearly injured, but no doubt still standing.

Mydeimos’ heart pulsed.

He was haloed in the light of the sun, crowned in golden light. But it was him, it was him stumbling closer and frantically looking about. And then his gaze finally settled, finding that which he had been so desperately searching for.

Their eyes met, and Mydeimos wondered if this too was fate.

Phainon’s eyes widened in horror, and he began to run down that hill with all he could. 

It was all Mydeimos was aware of, despite the sword that pierced down through the center of his back where that scar had been. Blood filled his mouth as it cut through him, the steel now pushed through his abdomen. 

He was dying now.

But Phainon was there, and he was coming for him. 

He had come back.

Mydeimos thought he heard his name being cried out. Mindlessly, as the blade was being pulled out of his carved body, he swept his sword backwards in counterattack. He felt, rather than heard, the moment it cut across Nikador’s lower legs. 

Shuddering, he turned to face Nikador once again, watching the bitter hatred in that man’s eyes.

Mydeimos had one leg kneeling, breath stuttering as blood spilled from his body. He attempted to stand up, struggling to do so. 

Nikador pointed his sword at him once again, laughing in venomous disbelief. “Perhaps I should be flattered that it was you that fate thought may defeat me.”

Mydeimos stared back at him, unwavering.

“Die now, Son of Gorgo.”

It was quiet now, and Mydeimos allowed his right leg to tremble. A showing of clear weakness, of where Nikador should strike next.

Like a mirror, he saw back years ago. Phainon had been before him, feigning this very move. And it was fitting then, that Phainon be with him like this even now. That Phainon be written into his prophecy as so.

Nikador saw the opening, and with single-minded dedication, took it without abandon. Merciless, and fully intending to cut him down.

Mydeimos’ expression was steady when it happened. There was no rush of victory, but finally, finally, the closure of it all.

To finally let go.

His sword met Nikador’s and forced it up, and then, with one clean motion of the wrist, drove into Nikador’s neck. 

There was a cough of blood, of choking. 

Mydeimos was standing now, and he pulled his sword out. Nikador fell to his knees, clutching at his throat. 

He didn’t have much more time.

With one seamless motion of his sword, Nikador’s head fell from his body. 

Mydeimos watched his corpse crumple apart, and finally dropped his sword. 

He took a step back.

He thought of his mother’s touch, her hand upon his shoulder as they walked through the palace gardens.

He thought of Phainon, of the future they would never share.

Even if I died here alone, your memory would be here with me. I would think of you.

It was over.

It was finally over.

The world released its breath which it had been holding. Prophecy came to its conclusion, and now there was only the aftermath.

His people would be safe. Phainon would be safe.

He was passing into a dream, and the world’s threads began to unravel. In his dying, his soul felt more alive than it had in years. He was free now from those shackles that had forced a weapon from a man.

Mydeimos took a few steps forward, a few more, then stumbled once more. 

He would never step inside that home where he was born. He would never return there with his people. 

But Phainon was there, so close ahead of him. And it was the home he had come to know, the home he had truly yearned for.

And then Phainon was finally here, his arms outstretched to him as Mydeimos finally collapsed.

Metal clashed against the ground, Phainon’s sword. Everything was slowed, as if time had caught this moment in its hand. Mydeimos blinked and Phainon was beside him, lifting his torso so Mydeimos could lean against his chest. He was holding him close, pulling his helm off and allowing him to see fully again.

Through lowered lashes, Mydeimos looked down at the final wound which had pierced him through armor and bone.

The blood there was warm, staining against both their hands and creeping into the lines of their skin.

Phainon held his hands against both sides of the wound, breaths quick and clipped. His eyes darted across the state of Mydeimos’ broken body, and it was clear that he was seeking a way to fix this, to bring the broken pieces back together.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Phainon kept whispering, crying. “Mydeimos, I’m here.”

Mydeimos gazed at him, touching at Phainon’s hand.

The pain now, the wounds and the poison, was becoming numb.

Weakly, and silently, he shook his head.

And after a few seconds, Phainon’s shaking hands finally let him go. 

Their eyes met.

He knew then that Phainon would understand.

Just hold me now.

“Phainon,” Mydeimos murmured. “You came back.”

Warmth. How warm Phainon was beside him.

There was a smile then, though it didn’t quite reach Phainon’s eyes. His voice was fragile, a frayed line about to snap. And Mydeimos knew that Phainon was trying to be strong for him at this moment. 

“I couldn’t leave you.”

Mydeimos swallowed, his tongue heavy. So many words to say, and yet life was seeping out of him. He was so tired.

The price of prophecy.

And yet he was no longer afraid. The end was here, after so many years.

All there was now, was them.

“It’s okay,” Phainon whispered softly. “You don’t need to say anything. I understand.”

The man shifted so they could look easier at one another, and Mydeimos’ gaze softened. The blue of Phainon’s eyes were paler in this light, the lines of his face just as Mydeimos remembered them. He traced them all, just as he had done so many times before. 

How clear those memories were, when there was nothing except for them in the world.

“It’s okay,” Phainon said, his voice warbling. “I’m here. I’m going to take care of you, Mydeimos. I promise you.”

Mydeimos blinked slowly, dark clouds beginning to haze over his field of vision. All he could see now was Phainon, whose features even now were blurring. In fading recognition, Mydeimos watched as Phainon fought back his tears. The strain of his lips, throat held tight, the inner corner of his brows raised in such a way. 

He grasped as tightly as he could onto Phainon’s hand, though his fingers had barely any strength left. Yet Phainon still lifted their hands up together, fingers interwoven as he kissed the back of Mydeimos’ knuckles.

“Won’t you . . .” Mydeimos quietly began to speak, voice hoarse. Phainon leaned in closer to hear him.

“Forgive me?”

At the end of all things.

Phainon was still for a moment, and all Mydeimos saw was the wind which caught Phainon’s hair in its breeze. Then, the feeling of wetness dripping onto his cheeks. Phainon’s tears.

The man nodded once, twice.

“I forgive you, Mydeimos. I am with you. I will always be with you.”

Mydeimos tried to part his lips, but his voice was gone. His blood pooled out on the tiles below, so dark in the harsh sunlight it was almost black.

For there were words unsaid. Words he had never uttered, despite how deeply he had harbored them.

It was as if he were forgetting how to breathe, and he felt himself choking on the very air.

Mydeimos took their intertwined hands and pulled them to his chest, laying them across his heart.

Everything he wished to say, with the beat of his heart slowing now.

Phainon squeezed his fingers, nodding. He leaned closer, pressing his lips against Mydeimos’ cheek, his lips. Those words once again, those words Mydeimos had once been too cowardly to say back.

“Phainon,” Mydeimos wished to whisper into his skin. “I love you.”

His eyelids fell as he tilted his face one last time to feel Phainon there beside him. 

To stay like this forever.

There was a touch. And Mydeimos finally fell still.

Phainon waited until he was sure, until Mydeimos was no longer there. He kissed the man’s brow, chest constricting as tears stained down his cheeks.

He whispered his name, over and over again, as if time could turn back. Reality blurred, memories coming in waves, and Phainon could hear the shores of the sea. Mydeimos’ eyes were closed, and his expression at peace.

In the distance, the sound of clattering armor and marching. Their battle had ended. The army was beginning to crest over the hill, to come to their triumphant and fallen king.

Phainon paid them no heed, instead looking down upon Mydeimos and the golden sunlight which scattered across his skin. It was as if he were asleep, just like that day Phainon had first found him. 

And Mydeimos was there now, in that liminal space of memory.

He wept, and softly, tenderly, pressed their foreheads together one last time.

I will fulfill my promise to you. I will lead our people home. I will have your name etched into history.

Dream of me the way I will dream of you.

And one day, I will follow you again into those endless fields of gold.

 

 

 

Notes:

thank you for reaching this far, i really loved writing this fic and getting to go back into my iliad roots (somewhat) <3

the first poem phainon recites to mydeimos is fragment 31 by sappho, and the story of the sun god is the tale of apollo and hyacinthus.

thank you again, and if you ever want to chat my twitter is @jotqro