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The air was always still after a battle.
Bodies lay haphazardly on the scorched ground, twisted and shapeless like the nightmarish creatures mothers would warn their children about.
You’d better go to bed now, they’d say, cuddling close with feigned terror as their young would shiver and giggle from the excitement. You’d better go to bed, or all that awaits you is the beast, and it is far less merciful than the sweet release of sleep.
But what do children, weaned on sunlight and raised in tranquillity, know of beasts?
Phainon sighed and began his advance.
His sandals, well-worn with tales of endless walks and well-loved by the mortals who worshipped at his feet, were silent as they stepped over scattered corpses, abandoned weapons, decimated armour. Stretching far into the distance was the impact of this dispute, fitting for something that had claimed so many lives.
No soul was left living on the battlefield, the few survivors having departed quickly after to avoid the weight of such an event and charge forward into greater pursuits, leaving behind stolen lives and broken families.
Yet this too would pass.
The Titan of Worldbearing reached the middle of the land and stopped, where remnants of war were left stacked on each other to form a makeshift arena, an offering to Strife in the hopes of blessing future exploits.
And there it was, right in the centre, almost imperceptible yet heavy with intent, sweet Elpis huddled loyally under the lip of Pandora’s jar, a symbol of hope and possibility.
Phainon knelt and placed his hand on the earth, feeling the slight bump of a seed underneath his fingertips.
“Well met, Kephale.” The voice of a Titan, baritone and proud, as Strife approached to claim His spoils; astride his gargantuan lion, Lance of Fury in hand, he was the embodiment of war, simmering with passion and action to contrast the field's morbid placidity.
Phainon barely spared him a glance.
“Nikador,” He murmured, keeping his cerulean gaze on the seed nestled beneath Georios’s embrace. “Come to claim your victory?”
A scoff, and the clatter of a weapon tossed aside. “How many times must I say it? There is no victory in needless violence.” Nikador perused the walls of the ‘arena’, lifting an impressive greatsword to swing it like an experienced warrior. “The true valour in strife comes not from slaughtering each other like pigs, squabbling over trivial matters that could easily be resolved without bloodshed.”
His confident footsteps approached, and suddenly Phainon was looking at a bronzed leg, tattooed and muscular and beautiful like the man it supported.
Ever the show-off, he wore only a simple cloth around his waist, crimson draping between his legs and leaving his chest and thighs bare to the world. The golden jewellery caressing his skin glimmered under the midday sun, bright and gorgeous against tanned skin, while the sapphires depicting the man’s claimancy twinkled affectionately at their owner.
At Phainon.
He finally looked up, meeting fierce golden eyes. “Mydei,” he said, voice cajoling and smile tender, “you look radiant.”
A flush of red. “You and your words,” Mydei spoke, but his gruff voice could not conceal the emotion bubbling in his eyes. He stood closer to Phainon, dropping a gauntlet-covered hand on his shoulder and preening when the man turned his head to press a kiss to his wrist, then another to his thigh.
They watched in amicable silence as the wind swirled around them, easing out the scent of rust and flames and destruction, to bring in a more gentle, calmer breeze.
Slumbering Georios, the father of the land, respected the presence of Titans and remained docile and unmoving under their feet as it nurtured the lone seed. The seed, a reminder to others of the humanity of the enemy, of the hearts beating under layers of metal and flesh and bone and of the laughter shared by campfire light; of the grieving tears shed by loved ones upon learning of their fate and the proud cheers of warriors returning victorious.
“I have never understood why you only want one of those things,” Mydei mumbled as he slid his gauntlets off to tangle battle-worn fingers in white hair. “Surely, the lives reaped by war are enough to warrant hundreds, no, thousands of trees as reparations to the mighty Deliverer.”
Phainon chuckled, closing his eyes as he leaned against Mydei’s firm weight. “It’s not about reparations, dearest. The fact of the matter is, were I to let the wildest of my children run rampant on these fields, spreading strife in your name, then what would be left for the rest? What of the youths, searching for love or the scholars understanding their craft?”
The fingers in his hair tightened as Mydei bristled. “You are not suggesting I enjoy this, being a symbol of paltry conflict? I bear no love for these weak imitations of strife, bloodthirsty and cruel, yet they still fall under my name. I have a duty to them. That is the sole reason I oversee them.”
Heavy footfalls resounded as Mydei's steed, a lion as large as an elephant and as fierce as his master, approached. He seemed to have been agitated by Mydei's perceived offence, searching for a perpetrator to tear limb from limb. But he would not hurt Phainon.
“Easy now, Leon,” Phainon murmured as he reached one palm out to golden fur, the other intertwining with his beloved’s own.
It was with a flourish that he tugged Mydei down beside him, arranging him to sit sideways in his lap as they shared a moment of calm. The lion chuffed, curling himself behind them and closing his eyes once more. From within his lap, however, Mydei's eyes were open, narrowed in annoyance; his pouty expression did little to strike fear, however, for his face was still hued in that fetching pink.
Mydei folded his arms and looked away from the man holding him. “You think you can just sweep me into your arms, and I will forget your words like a simpering bride. Don't take me for a fool, Phainon.”
“It's not like that at all, Mydeimos.” A firm arm tightened around his waist while a hand grasped his chin and tilted his gaze to meet glorious blues.
“There is strife in all sorts of things. Beautiful things,” his voice dropped, admiration filling his eyes, as he stroked plains of unblemished skin, “and terrible things. It isn't your fault that some mortals can only bear to see you on fields such as this. Yet, I am their father, just as they are my children, so all I ask is that they remember where they came from and what they strive for. One small seed – that is enough for me. It shows they still honour the sanctity of life, and they are ready for me to take over the duty of creation in lands made hollow by destruction.”
Phainon's words elicited a stunned silence, Mydei’s lips parting slightly as he processed his words. Gradually, his upset expression melted into one of mirth, his eyes crinkling and teeth baring in a mischievous grin.
“Ha, your duty of creation over destruction?” Mydei lifted his hand to cup Phainon's face, petting at his cheek while the other nuzzled into his hold.
“What is it that amuses you, my love?”
“Creation triumphs destruction, suggesting that destruction is nothing but a cleanse, the formation of a blank slate to plant new life into.” There was a hidden meaning there, something Phainon was not yet privy to – Mydeimos spoke as though there was a blatant irony to his words.
“You have not seen the mortals in the south, I presume, untouched by the effects of war unless in song.” He knew them well, hardworking farmers who believed in slow-paced lives of pacifism and joy, allowing them to enjoy the beauties of nature. But no, he hadn't visited them in far too long.
“Your beloved children, they have started worshipping me alongside you. Just as you walk the battlefield in its aftermath, it appears that I am but a stretch of land for you to claim, till, and sow new life into.”
Oh, such words!
Phainon looked down at the man in his arms with dismay, trying and failing to conceal the emotions aroused by that strange declaration. From what he could understand, Mydei was suggesting that Nikador had gained a new purpose, a new honour, stretching his dominion from Strife to something more. He didn't want to assume what that may be, lest his guesses be sorely mistaken.
“Speak plainly, Mydeimos, what attribute have you gained?
Mydei fidgeted in his place, an unusually shy action for such a powerful man. He looked away from piercing blue, choosing to settle his gaze on the curve of his own navel, rising gently with each breath. “Nikador is not only Strife, but… Fertility. For some people, hand in hand with Childbearing.”
“Ah.”
Mydei rushed to continue speaking. “Don't tell me you didn't notice. My body has already started to develop changes to fit the views of my supplicants.”
He grabbed one of Phainon's hands, dragging it slowly down to the slight swell of his stomach. “They have started erecting monuments in my image, only to adorn me with your symbols and intertwine us like we are an inseparable pair. ‘In Strife’s womb does the World plant seed, ’ they say, and shape my body to house whatever you wish.”
His words were mocking, but his eyes were wide and desperate, as though begging Phainon to say something, anything that could alleviate him of his embarrassment at his newfound title.
Mydei was less worried about the tasks and associations that came with his role – he was no stranger to duty, and he knew the importance of fertility in continuing the progress of life. No, his main concern lay in the acknowledgement of their relationship, of the mortals finally seeing the truth and placing them side by side, lovers and equals, unable to part.
For despite their devotees seeing it, the bond between Kephale and Nikador, Phainon and Mydei had yet to name the budding relationship between them.
The hand on his navel stirred and drifted up. Higher, to cup his breast. “These feel plumper.” Came an appreciative whisper, and then lips pressed down on the tender flesh to suckle a perked nipple into a loving mouth.
Mydei let out a gasp, his hands tightening in white hair at the sensation. Phainon hummed, settling his free hand back on Mydei's belly and caressing the soft mound. “Does this mean you are carrying now?”
His words were met with a quivering whimper as Mydei arched into his firm touch, “I’m not… I'm not certain…”
Then, Mydei found himself laid out on his back like an offering, dust and dirt meeting his skin when he stared up at the man above him, brilliant and glowing like the sun as Phainon focused his wanting eyes on his prone form.
Phainon leaned down once more, parting his chiton to dip between Mydei's legs and embrace the heat between them. “Your body was already a wonderful thing,” he spoke, shifting and rolling his hips against Mydei's clothed core, “and now, you come to me speaking of being mine. You're perfect.”
And then, he reached his fingers down to peel away Mydei's underclothes, the last barrier from allowing the Titans to consummate their union. Mydei caught his wrist, not restricting his movements, just holding on like a lifeline.
“Would you have us make love here, right on the husk of destruction?” Mydei's voice was incredulous, like he was surprised that Phainon would want him in a place such as this. How ridiculous, Phainon would want him anywhere, everywhere, no matter the reason.
“What better place?” He chuckled and pushed his hips forward, entering Mydei with a pleased exhale. “You spoke of me… planting seed in your womb, why not fulfil that request?”
“It– it was not a request,” Mydei sighed out, stretching his arms out to wrap around Phainon's neck and pull him close so they may share the same air. “I was only sharing what the mortals believed.”
His hips rose in response to the powerful thrusts, his legs rising to bracket a thick waist. As Phainon moved inside him, deep and passionate and heated, tears streamed down Mydei's flushed cheeks, breathless moans tearing from his throat.
The two Titans, beautiful and strong, were lost in the throes of love as they intertwined and rolled around the deserted battlefield. Their voices, cries of pleasure and enthusiastic whines, rang out for the wind to carry through the lands, a signal that the war had ended, and life was to start.
But in the heavens, their sounds were a message of great inconvenience to the gathered pantheon.
“I thought we had agreed to meet promptly when the sun reaches its zenith,” spoke Talanton, annoyance vivid on her face, “but it is now well past that time, and we have yet to even list the meeting objectives.”
Phagousa nodded and called out, “My lady speaks justly. Why, we have not even served the honeybrew. Might we not just commence without the presence of the others?”
Her sentiments were echoed by others in the room: Cerces, Zagreus, Aquila, but all for differing reasons.
Wise Cerces knew of the importance of such meetings, the discussions they could share about matters pertaining both mortals and Titans – be it his indulgent curiosity towards the blasphemers, his livid feud with Mnestia, his fears of a greater horror that may rise against their divinity.
Meanwhile, wily Zagreus wanted the meeting to commence quickly so that she might depart posthaste, eager to seek new treasures and swindle naive travellers. She was not free to completely neglect such meetings, attached as she was to the gaze of Mnestia, but that was not to say that she enjoyed them, no, not at all.
But Aquila, poor Aquila, gentle and warm, agreed only because her dominion regularly forced her to bear witness to the love between the absent Titans, and she knew they could continue for weeks at a time; until Georios shifted in slumber under Kephale's brutal movements and the earth shook, until Nikador’s yowling cries cracked open goblets miles away, until the two were so consumed in their passions that they began to lose grip on physical form.
They held no regard for the changing of the weather, bearing through the sun's blazing heat and torrential rains if only to taste the love dripping off of each other's lips. And, were anyone unlucky enough to interrupt, they may be smited by Nikador’s Lance, mauled by the holy beast Leon, or worst of all, fall victim to Kephale’s icy gaze.
Fair Mnestia gave a knowing smile to Aquila, raising her hand in agreement. “I suppose it would be in our best interests to start discussions now, rather than wait. Our absent comrades appear to be busy, deeply entwined in the snares of romance.”
Cerces clicked his tongue in annoyance, settling more comfortably on his chair as he pulled out a scroll and continued working through a list of calculations. “That is your dominion, is it not? Why do you not simply suppress their desire and summon them here yourself?”
“Perhaps a heartless scholar may not understand such matters,” Mnestia’s voice was frigid, not even deigning the Titan a glance alongside her curt reply, “but to tamper with the roots of love, especially within fellow Titans, defies the natural order and tempts chaos.”
“I also heard,” interrupted Thanatos's voice, normally so quiet yet uncharacteristically enlivened, “that Nikador has claimed a new title.”
The other Titans sat up in shock, snapped from their fatigued stupor at such riveting news.
For a Titan to gain a new title, a new area of dominion, was a monumental occasion, capable of raising their power to unprecedented levels; Oronyx, once merely in charge of keeping watch over the night skies, had seen her might be elevated once she was deemed worthy by the mortals of the guardianship of Time.
Conversely, the title could be something less impactful, such as when Phagousa had been deemed the Master of Banquets alongside the Titan of Oceans. They watched, rapt, as Thanatos continued.
“From the farming villages in the south, to be spread across the lands, he has been attributed to both Strife and Fertility, worshipped alongside Kephale as a complement.” Her words seemed to please her greatly, and she tucked a strand of lilac hair behind her ear, eyes twinkling. “Some have started to call them partners, lovers, even spouses.”
Silence filled the room.
Then, one by one, the Titans’ focus drifted to the sounds of passion still drifting in through the wind, unashamed and loud. The Titan of Creation in fiery entanglement with the Titan of Fertility.
The chiming echoes of Janus’ laughter peppered her words, “Does this mean we will have another Titan in our midst soon?” One could only assume that with the carnal pleasures shared by the two Titans, so frequent and so fervent, a new life would soon be created.
But Oronyx only shuddered, her rosy hair fluttering as she shook her head with fervour. “I should hope not. The spawn of Strife and my brother… how fearsome a power they may have.”
Then she closed her eyes, and foresight filled her mind with the sounds of wailing cries, images of numerous little footsteps trailing behind crimson fabrics and a lion’s mane, the sensation of many tiny hands tugging at her chiton. She let out a wince, “...perhaps I spoke too soon.”
At first, it was believed that Kephale and Nikador were enemies, two Titans filled with hatred for one another from the very moment of their formation.
Their existence revolved around crushing any signs of each other in the world, be it through fights to the death, demolishing their opponent’s altars or eradicating cities built in their name. Believers in such enmity would carry it through in their day-to-day lives and swear to uphold this distaste for the opposition, resulting in widespread disputes and disastrous war.
As time passed, people began to suggest that the better term for the two was rivals, equal and yet opposite in their spheres of dominion.
Where Kephale was holy creation, fathering mankind and nurturing the lives of all, Nikador was divine retribution, a burst of fury sent down from above to disrupt peace. Tales were told in which they would spar for days on end, their abilities so well-matched that they would only separate when duty required it. They bore no hatred for one another, only a disagreement in the correct philosophy of life.
The true nature of their relationship was revealed by one weary traveller, sharing his exploits to a silver-tongued bard over a cup of wine in a tavern on the eve of the busiest night of the year.
He spoke of setting up camp in an isolated field en route to Okhema, quiet and peaceful under the blanket of nightfall, his only company the moon and the stars and the whispers of the plants. At some point, on the search for fresh water to bathe, he found himself in a clearing of tall trees, their leaves rustling as they shared the stories carved into their trunks and captured through their roots.
Think I was in the presence of Titans, I was, the traveller recounted, them oaks were speaking, I swear they were.
Perhaps he was drunk, perhaps he was tired, perhaps he was stupefied by the grove he had managed to trespass in – we can never know if that occurred, and if old oak trees were truly able to tell a story. But regardless, the traveller continued, fuelled by the sounds of rushing water he could hear from nearby.
He walked past trees and nests and bushes, until finally, the only thing barring him from a relaxing bath was the imposing wall of a stone cave.
And that's when I saw them, he said, Titans.
Standing in a flowing river of gold, the blessed waters of Phagousa themself, were two beings; too glorious to be civilians yet far stronger than mere warriors, they must have been Titans themselves.
Their nude bodies glowed with sweat and power, corded muscles rippling as they lunged at each other like beasts. They were duelling in the water, the discordant clang of metal on metal echoing in the clearing as the swordsman struck the melee fighter’s armoured fists, only to be deflected and attacked with a vicious punch.
The traveller hid desperately, fearing that he had walked in on a clash between Titans, so ferociously were they fighting, so unrestrained were their strikes.
Yet in mere moments, he understood the nature of their fight.
One of the two – he could only be Nikador, those familiar red markings snaking along his body being a clear indicator – stretched his teeth out in a joyous smile when he caught the other's blade, only to toss it back with a bark of laughter.
The other must have hence been Kephale, evident from the extra pair of arms shimmering in and out of existence and the golden sun blazing on his neck.
Both Titans were playing, the traveller realised, watching as they sparred like teenagers and giggled with freedom.
At some point, they lost their weapons, Nikador tossing aside his pair of golden gauntlets and Kephale discarding his greatsword, to grapple on the floor like unruly children. Though this didn't last long, for Kephale had the clear advantage with his extra pair of limbs, no matter how skilled Nikador was with his powerful thighs.
He put up a damn good fight, but Kephale knocked him over pretty quickly. Then, the traveller’s eyes lit up, carefully surveying his enraptured audience with a grin as his story continued.
Think I looked away for maybe a second, but when I had my eyes on them again, they were fucking right on the riverbed.
The tavern burst into uproar, shocked at the possibility of the two Titans, believed to be sworn enemies or at least rivals, actually being intimate lovers. The bard, who was initially the sole listener, sighed dreamily and suggested the use of less crude language when talking about such matters.
The traveller gave a gruff laugh. Course, they were definitely fucking for some time. Good old Nikador had his mouth hanging open, struggling for breath and howling like my wife when I– ah, never mind. Don't even get me started on the sounds. But then they calmed down, and I think that's when they started making love instead.
The traveller then went on to describe how, in the midst of passion, their undulating bodies began to take on more amorphous forms, not quite man and yet not quite woman, neither human nor animal, dancing between the binaries until they appeared to be mere concepts devoted solely to the pleasure of each other.
One moment, they were both men, bodies sculpted and beautiful as they wrapped around each other like serpents. The next moment, Nikador was a war-maiden with great heaving breasts, writhing underneath Kephale, who had taken the form of a pale-skinned woman as lovely as the snow. The next moment, they were both lions, then wolves, then deer – always equal, always balanced.
The wild union between them left their abilities to run rampant, creation and destruction soaring throughout the grove and eliciting sparks of sheer power to emanate in the surrounding lifeforms. The traveller shuddered at the memory. Honestly, I think I was only saved because I hid behind that cave. I've always been dedicated to the Earth Dragon.
The traveller recounts how the coupling between Kephale and Nikador reached such unprecedented levels that they started to emit each other's abilities, so close they were to becoming one.
When Nikador’s voice cried out in pleasure, fresh flowers began to bloom along the riverbank, crocuses and myrtles and lilies with delicate petals that fluttered shyly in the wind. Whereas when Kephale, consumed by desire and passion, pinned his fellow Titan to the ground with a growl, a majestic lion sprang forward, the noble steed of Nikador come to serve at his master's command.
The traveller’s story cuts off there, after a petty thief makes off with his coin pouch, and he hastily departs to chase her. But through the bard’s countless retellings of the tale, our understanding of the bond between the Titans is enriched, and we may create a fitting start for the exploration in the rest of this volume.
— The Myths and Histories of Amphoreus, Vol. X: The Love of Kephale and Nikador